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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26077414">one for the mockingbird</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/capricornia/pseuds/capricornia'>capricornia</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>K-pop, SEVENTEEN (Band)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>(none of the svts don't worry), Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Magic, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Animal Death, Enemies to Lovers, Explicit Sexual Content, Happy Ending, M/M, Major Character Injury, Mild Gore, Minor Character Death, Minor Choi Seungcheol/Jeon Wonwoo, Power Imbalance, Sort Of, Trope Subversion, animal injury, honestly if you think a hint of a ship is deliberate it probably is, i have multishipping disease, love on purpose, me throwing men at seungcheol, mentions of fire- and water-related trauma (burning and drowning), technically this is a Books of Bayern AU</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 02:34:34</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>19,688</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26077414</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/capricornia/pseuds/capricornia</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>"You are good," Seungcheol insists. His breath caresses the side of Jeonghan’s mouth as he breaks for air, and Jeonghan feels his words etch themselves into his bones as he says earnestly, "You're wonderful, you're lovely, you're beautiful." </p><p>Jeonghan bares his neck and grins. He brings his legs up to feel as much of the king’s skin against his own as he can, reveling in Seungcheol's touch. "And what else?"</p><p>--</p><p>Jeonghan is sent to spy on Seungcheol's court.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Choi Seungcheol | S.Coups/Yoon Jeonghan, Minor or Background Relationship(s)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>47</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Coup de Cœur - Round 1</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>one for the mockingbird</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Some notes before we get started:</p><p>This work is set in a fictional place that is heavily influenced by the Joseon and Goryeo periods of Korean history. The whole purpose of AUs in my opinion are to find truths about the characters that are not or cannot be explored in the canon setting. Because the focus is therefore on the characters and not the setting, I have taken some liberties re: historical accuracy. Simply put, the setting is 1/3rd fantasy, 1/3rd historical influence, and 1/3rd idolverse. (I put Books of Bayern AU in the tags to cite my inspiration but you don’t need to know anything about those books for this work.) Cities in this AU look a little different from how cities in the Joseon period looked, because of the landscape and fantasy part of this AU, etc. Additionally, not all vocabulary used will fit under the "historical" roof. Words like "hyung" and other forms of address that would be inappropriate to an historically accurate portrayal of Joseon Korea are used here to keep the Seventeen Idolverse dynamic intact.</p><p>These things are choices that I have made regarding this (unbeta'ed) fic, and so I take full responsibility for them. I have tried to research and decide responsibly, but I am not Korean, nor have I interacted with Korean culture for a significant enough amount of time. If there is something in this work that is insensitive, please let me know.</p><p>Special thanks to Eleni, Em, Hyb, Leesa, Terri and of course the wonderful coupsfest mods. And to Kim Dong-uk, who wrote a book about palaces in Korea. And a pat on the back for myself, I guess. This is my first e-rated work, my first long work, my first work with plot and my first fic for a fest. I didn't know I had it in me.</p><p>PLEASE NOTE: this fic contains mentions of spiders, vomiting, water- and fire-related trauma and death of parents and siblings. The water/fire thing will be somewhat graphic in later chapters, but for now all of these are only mentioned in passing. Please let me know if there are other things I should warn for! I want to make sure everyone reading this has the smoothest time possible.</p><p>Thanks for reading!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The bird comes to Seungcheol at dawn. It doesn’t speak—not anymore. He doesn’t expect it to, not really, but he cannot help the rise of hope in his chest that he has to quell every time.</p><p>This bird is smaller than the others have been. Its feathers are bent back, and its beak looks as if it has been pecking a rock for the last several years. It looks half-dead, just like all the others. It flops around weakly on the edge of his window, making the tiniest patter-patter sounds with its feet and tapping out a light beat Hansol would be proud of. </p><p>It’s a mountain bird, like always. If Seungcheol goes to the top of the hill right behind the palace, he can just make out the tips of the mountains on the horizon. The bird must have traveled far. </p><p>It opens its beak, and Seungcheol braces himself once again, but it doesn’t even croak, doesn’t even whistle. It just opens its mouth piteously and stares out with dull eyes. Seungcheol has never had the heart to not feed the birds that come to him, even if they’ll die in a matter of hours anyway.</p><p>(It must be the price they pay for leaving the mountains. He has toyed with the possibility that their lives are tied to that place. The rumors about the mountains are not kind. The laws there are even harsher than they are in Seungcheol’s kingdom in the hills, and misery hangs like a cloud over their queen’s court. Magic-users, it is said, go to the mountains to die.)</p><p>He drops some crumbs from the shaker he keeps on the table next to the window and shakes his head. “I’m sorry,” he says, remembering his manners to nature but sounding just as pathetic as he imagines the half-dead bird would, were it to speak to him. He leans his elbows on the windowsill and rests his head on his arms. “I know you must have come to me for a reason. You must have a message. Is that right?” He tries to concentrate on the way his voice sounds, on the way he’s thinking. He waits for the bird to acknowledge his words in body language if not in speech. </p><p>It doesn’t. Of course it doesn’t.</p><p>He leans his head sideways on his arm. Close-to, the bird looks even worse. Did it eat at all on the journey from the mountains to the hills? It doesn’t look like it. Was it allowed to? He grew up with stories told by servants and advisors alike all about the strange cruelties of the court of the queen in the mountains. There are rules for magic-users; perhaps there are even rules for the birds.</p><p>“I cannot take whatever message you have,” he says. “I don’t understand you. You must know that. Someone must know that. Whoever is sending you has tried enough times to figure that out.” </p><p>That’s the question, of course. <em> Whoever </em> is sending the birds must be doing it for a reason, and he still does not know if they are an ally or an enemy. If the birds are for him or someone else. Whether they ought to be familiar to him or not. </p><p>The bird hops around a little bit more, encouraged by the crumbs. The new morning sunlight bathes everything in an unfamiliar haze. This time of morning has always felt a little more magical to him than any other. </p><p>“I don’t know if you understand me,” he whispers to the bird. “I never knew if it worked both ways, you know. I don’t know if you can talk to anyone else. But if you please—can you take a message somewhere for me?” It’s his request every time. The bird cocks its head and glares at him as if it knows what happened to all the other birds. Seungcheol pities the poor creature, but not enough to not ask him this. “It’s for Soonyoung,” he says. “Kwon Soonyoung. Tell him I need him here. Tell him to meet me at sundown in the garden.”</p><p>He half-anticipates that the bird will stop in recognition, will look up at him and widen its eyes and open its beak and say, in Soonyoung’s voice, “But that’s me! Tricked you!” But all it does is peck at the crumbs, and he feels his hope shrivel and die again like fruit left in the sun, wrinkling up more and more as the moment stretches on and on. It’s just him and the bird awake in this little corner of the palace. He feels halfway between peaceful and terribly lonely. </p><p>The bird gulps down a crumb, and then it promptly flops down onto the windowsill and tucks its head under its wing. Seungcheol sighs, blowing his loose hair out of his face. If the bird has the strength, it will fly back in a few hours, hopefully in search of Soonyoung. </p><p>If it doesn’t have the strength, someone will have to clean the windowsill.</p><p> </p><p>••</p><p> </p><p>Jeonghan is nervous. It’s not something he likes to show, and he’s glad they haven’t met anyone from the king’s palace yet. He can chew on the end of his hair with only two familiar pairs of eyes giving him odd looks instead of the judgmental glares of palace soldiers or guards or whoever would escort their party up through the hills.</p><p>The capital city comes into view behind the next hill they pass, and Jeonghan swallows hard. It’s bigger than he thought it would be. He has been briefed on it, of course, with the scant information they have: the layout of the roads, where the houses are, where the shopping district is, where the palace sits. The floor plans of the palace, as much as they could make out; the important members of the palace; the functions of the guards and the army and the kitchens and servants. The courtiers, the little they know about them. Based on the stories Seokmin has told him on their journey, he’d been imagining something dark and sinister, something really tall, but the city sits low and comfortable, in bright colors tucked into the green hilly landscape. </p><p>“Ready?” Seokmin asks cheerfully from atop his horse. Jeonghan glances at him. He feels bad for using Seokmin like this to get into the palace. As far as Seokmin knows, he’s just here as an ambassador’s attendant, hand-picked from the village near Seokmin’s father’s land, there to give Seokmin a flavor of home and to remind him to write to his parents every once in a while. Seokmin doesn’t have to ask him if he’s ready, but he does anyway, and he even seems interested in Jeonghan’s answer, so Jeonghan nods and tries not to throw up.</p><p>“Let’s try to make better time in this last stretch than we did just now,” Seungkwan says from Seokmin’s other side. They’ve been on the road for two weeks, and his patience has worn thin. Seokmin will not snap at them, but Jeonghan and Seungkwan get testy around each other.</p><p>So much for Seungkwan’s wish. It takes them another three hours to get to the actual gates of the city, and then another hour to get to the palace itself, and then another two to go through the whole ceremony of Seokmin and his entourage being announced before the Throne Hall. By the time they’re shown to their rooms, the sun is setting over the hills. </p><p>Seokmin’s room has a window, which Jeonghan is relieved by. He watches the sun slip under the horizon as he unpacks the things Seokmin will need for dinner. Dinner is when they’ll meet the king more personally, and Jeonghan needs to be particularly on his guard. </p><p>He wonders if the king is like the stories that reach the mountains say he is. Jeonghan has heard, from both villagers in the mountains and in Seokmin’s territories, that the king in the hills is brooding, with a heavy brow and a low voice that hums like the thick, plucked string of an instrument. They say he wears all black when he speaks to his people. That he saw horrors as a prince no child should see, that his parents hid him as he grew up because they were ashamed—of what, Jeonghan has never been sure. Nobody seems to know.</p><p>He takes Seokmin’s dinner clothes out of the trunk and glances around furtively. There’s supposed to be a wizard here, but he figures a light wrinkle spell, done in the approved style of Seokmin’s villages, won’t cause much notice. There are laws about elemental languages, but low-level magic not tied to the elements is too prevalent, and too innocuous, to be heavily policed the way elemental-speaking is. If anything, the light spell will help mask his real magic. He lays the simple spell carefully on the overcoat before setting the rest of the outfit down on the bed and slipping out to the side room to change out of his own travel clothes. </p><p>Seokmin has been taken somewhere by Seungkwan to get a bath. Jeonghan doesn’t have time to find a bath for himself before dinner, so he takes a piece of rock from his pouch and tries to scrub the dirt off of himself. He can’t help the smell of the outdoors that clings to his hair, but he hopes it masks any magical, metaphysical smells he might be giving off. He doesn't know how wizards sense things like that. He hopes there aren’t the types of wizards here who can smell emotions, but it will probably be fine either way. It’s natural to be nervous at one’s first dinner in the presence of the king, even without being a spy.</p><p> </p><p>••</p><p> </p><p>Seungcheol’s grandmother used to tell him stories. When he was a child, he spent many hours sitting on her lap or by her feet, listening to her tell him all kinds of things. She presented everything the same way, and he never knew what was really true and what had been embellished. He supposed it didn’t matter, not really. Her voice had that same quality he assumed all grandmothers’ voices did: a little gritty, a little rumbly, soft around the edges like it was a stream of water sliding its way over rocks.</p><p>“Your grandfather fought off a beast the size of a house,” she’d tell him. Or, “When the world was new and yearning, the moon passed by and saw her, and he decided to stay in the sky to keep her company.” Or, “A very, very long time ago, there was a man who sought to control all things: the waters, the flame, the earth, the trees, and the wind.” That last one was one of the more tangible stories. His grandmother could seal her house in from little leaks. She took him fishing in one of the streams behind her house, and the water always seemed to yield the fish to her like she was its queen.</p><p>She was some queen, anyway. His father’s mother. When he was first sent to live with her, he hadn’t quite understood how royal bloodlines worked. He didn’t know why she lived in her secluded little palace in the north and not with his father and mother and brother. He’d been at the age when he was just starting to figure out that there were other people beyond himself who were their own beings. After he grew up a bit, he often wondered if his child’s perspective was how his grandmother saw the water, as a part of herself beyond her physical form. </p><p>Jihoon always says that’s the right way to think about it. Maybe that’s why Seungcheol’s mind slides over his early memories of her like oil.</p><p>The stories sometimes ended in tragedy. His grandfather’s had. He didn’t know it at the time, of course, but his parents’ and brother’s would as well.</p><p>He’d met Soonyoung at his grandmother’s. It was the summer before he turned eight years old, and he spent more time outside than inside. His grandmother used to let him roam all around her courtyard and garden and in the fields between her house and the village further down the hill. He always tried to sneak the other way up, to the very top of the hill, where the graves were. He could see far from there. His grandmother lived too far away from the palace—from <em> his </em>hill—to see home, but he could imagine it, with its curling edges and dark roofs painted against the sky.</p><p>If he turned, he could see the hazy outline of the mountains looming over the plains. They were so much bigger and darker there than they were at home. His grandmother lived at the tip of the hills territory in the north. There was only a short open space at the edge of the hills before the grasses of the plains rose up and up into the dark trees of the mountain range. </p><p>He’d loved going up there. He felt like he was standing on top of the world, looking down on everything like the moon surely did. </p><p>Soonyoung had found him on one of these excursions. Seungcheol had estimated he didn’t have much time before his grandmother called him back into his allowed area, and he’d closed his eyes and tried to relish the feeling of the high wind on his face. A noise had startled him, and he’d opened his eyes to see a boy standing a few paces down the hill. He doesn’t remember the first thing he noticed about Soonyoung. It may have been his eyes, which he has been enchanted by ever since. Possibly it was his smile, which even then Seungcheol had thought was both cocky and shy. He knows he didn’t notice that the boy’s legs were horse legs until they were halfway back to his grandmother’s house, after he’d asked, “What are you doing here?” and Soonyoung had bowed his head and said, “I’m Kwon Soonyoung, and you’re the prince,” like some sort of pronouncement. </p><p>He’d been invited to stay for dinner. Seungcheol doesn’t remember if he’d eaten in his horse legs or not.</p><p>They became fast friends that summer. And in the way that summer friendships spent away from home often do, their connection fizzled when Seungcheol was sent back home for his birthday celebration, then picked right back up again several months later when his parents decided to send him back out. Soonyoung became the one he talked to, the one he told everything to. There was not much to tell, back then. Only the lonely imaginings of a younger prince whose mother doted on him and sent him everything he wanted, whose life had not yet known tragedy. But Soonyoung listened just the same, and he told Seungcheol bits and pieces about his own childhood, and Seungcheol learned to listen to him as well.</p><p>He appreciates that now. He thinks often of his first understanding of hunger, how old he was then compared to how young Soonyoung was when he recalled it for Seungcheol’s interest. It was like a play, back then, something for someone else to experience and tell him all about. Something to retain the after-image of, but to forget the feeling. He tries not to feel that way now when he listens to his subjects.</p><p>Soonyoung had disappeared for a while. Seungcheol had seen him the last year he spent at his grandmother’s, though, just before his mother recalled him to the palace for good. Seungcheol had been eighteen, Soonyoung seventeen. They hadn’t met each other in years, at that point. Soonyoung was studying, he said. Studying what? Seungcheol wanted to know. Soonyoung had only put his fingers to his lips.</p><p>It was obvious, anyway, what he was studying. It had been obvious from the moment Seungcheol first knew him. He had a talent. It was evident in the way he moved.</p><p>It was obvious Seungcheol knew it, too, when he asked Soonyoung for help the last night he spent at his grandmother’s. Soonyoung had agreed, that night. He didn’t have to help Seungcheol, but he did. It is a choice Seungcheol appreciates more than anything. </p><p>Neither of them talked about that night, afterward. After Seungcheol became king, after he appointed Soonyoung to the position of palace wizard, after they grew up further and Seungcheol spent more and more time locked up in his rooms as the mourning period grew late. After Wonwoo, after the rest. Seungcheol had wondered whether it had taken as much of a toll on Soonyoung as it had on him. Soonyoung was different, after that night. Something less, something more than the boy Seungcheol had known. </p><p>Seungcheol had rationalized Soonyoung’s part away, had told himself it was necessary to do what he had done, even if it was against the law. Soonyoung wasn’t registered as a magic-user at all. Seungcheol had checked multiple times. And he’d used it to his advantage; he hadn’t registered Soonyoung either. He was the king, and he could do what he wanted. That had been his attitude in the early years. Oh, how young and naïve and bitter he had been.</p><p>Soonyoung knew the story his grandmother told, too. Seungcheol thinks often about where the story came from, who hears it. “Words have power,” Jihoon had told him on their first day working together, right before he’d sat down and told the same story.</p><p>
  <em> Born out of water and with the wind in his lungs, the man sought to wield the other elements. He wrestled with another for the earth, and when the other scratched his side, the blood poured out. It dripped down his leg, and when it touched the earth, he heard the earth calling to him. And so he became master of the earth, and used it to best the other in combat. And that is why humans fight over land to this day. On his land, the man built many houses and had many children. He learned to use wood in combination with the stones to build houses that would last. One day, the other came back, with a trick he had learned from the forest. He used a flint to set fire to the man’s house. The man ran inside to save his children from the flames. Twelve times he ran inside, and he received twelve burns on his skin. He took the other with him and ran into the house one last time. And with his last breaths, he became master over the fire. But he could not master Death. </em>
</p><p>That was how the story always ended. But he could not master Death. It is the same story as the one in the palace library, the same one his grandmother always told him, the same one Soonyoung had repeated from memory to Seungcheol the season he turned eleven. It's an old story, and Seungcheol knows it must not be true exactly, although it is rooted in fact. Death may not be mastered, but it can be wielded. Its fingers are present in the wars Seungcheol has read about, the battles he has fought himself. In his memories.</p><p>The words play against the back of Seungcheol’s mind as if they’re inked there like the mark of a criminal. Taunting him, always. </p><p> </p><p>••</p><p> </p><p>The stories, as it turns out, have left out quite a lot about the king. Nobody mentioned to Jeonghan his full lips and easy smile, or the way his eyes crinkle up, or his delighted laughter at something one of his advisors says as he leans forward and puts a hand on her shoulder. For the first week that they’re there, Jeonghan tries not to stare at him, but Seungkwan stares too, so he supposes it can be forgiven.</p><p>The king does not come to dinner every night. The first night, when they are introduced to him more personally in the Executive Hall, he enters in all his splendor, and Jeonghan tries his best not to hide behind Seokmin as they are announced. The king wants to know who Seokmin’s attendants are, too, which Jeonghan isn’t sure is exactly protocol, and so he is shoved forward by Seungkwan to bow more deeply.</p><p>“I trust you will take good care of your charge,” the king says softly, neatly. Jeonghan hears the smile in the king’s voice as he says, “I hope you feel as comfortable here as you do at home.” There’s a rawness to his tone that makes Jeonghan wonder what exactly he’s thinking of when he says it. It’s certainly nice, more than polite, to say to the servants of a young ambassador <em> I hope </em> anything, even more so to acknowledge that they have homes of their own. Seungkwan coughs a tiny bit, and he realizes they’re supposed to move back to their positions.</p><p>“That wasn’t so bad, was it?” Seokmin asks them later, as they move from the Executive Hall to the pavilion in the garden, where dinner will be held. The attention isn’t on them anymore—some other courtier appears to have just returned from some journey, and the king smiles and jokes with him as they walk, batting his long eyelashes even. Jeonghan feels out of his depth among so many high-ranking people. </p><p>“It was terrible,” Seungkwan mutters on Seokmin’s other side. “I still have a crick in my neck.” Seokmin snorts and tries to hide his too-wide smile. Jeonghan hopes he won’t keep up the serious act for long; he actually likes Seokmin’s smile. And judging from the way the king is acting with his more familiar courtiers, he won’t mind Seokmin beaming a bit.</p><p>He doesn’t have to mind it the next three nights. He isn’t there, and dinner is a much more casual affair. Jeonghan is served rice and fowl and soup and wine, and he tries to be polite but he hasn’t eaten this much since he left home. </p><p>“Does the king often not come to dinner?” Seokmin asks the man usually seated next to him. He’s another ambassador—Yixing, Jeonghan thinks his name is. </p><p>Yixing shakes his head. “He’s particular,” he says. He glances at the king’s cousin sitting at the head of the table. “I have only been here for three years, but I think it has something to do with—”</p><p>“It’s a good thing you arrived before the winter sets in,” someone else says loudly. Yixing shuts up immediately. Jeonghan latches onto his first prey as a spy. </p><p>“Kim Hyun-ah,” the woman introduces herself. “You probably aren’t used to the cold here. If you need anything, let one of the servants know. Or the guards. They aren’t as intimidating as they look. You see Park Chanyeol up there?” She nods to the king’s cousin. Jeonghan sees a tall, scowling man behind him. “Captain of the palace guard. He’ll get you what you need.” She smiles, sort of. Jeonghan wonders how much of it is an act to make him feel at ease. How much is a distraction from whatever Yixing was going to say.</p><p>“Thank you,” he says. </p><p>“Yes, thank you,” Seokmin says, and then he really does smile, bright in the shade of the dining pavilion.</p><p> </p><p>••</p><p> </p><p>When Seungcheol was a child, a younger prince, he’d thought being king meant getting to do everything he wanted. He hadn’t understood the roles of the advisors, then, or the palace wizards, or the scholars. He wishes now that he’d had more time to learn about everything. The problem with being the king is that it’s not easy to sneak around the palace to find out information his advisors aren’t telling him and hope no one asks him what he’s doing. </p><p>He wishes, just like he does every night, that his parents were still alive. That things could have turned out differently. </p><p>He needs to talk to Soonyoung.</p><p>“Hyung?” Mingyu says softly as he comes into the room. Seungcheol sighs, and Mingyu stops and stands there next to the doorway, fidgeting. Seungcheol knows he’s not the easiest person to sleep with. He steals all the blankets, which particularly bothers Mingyu, and wakes up more often than not with his hands all over his companion. </p><p>He hasn’t slept with Mingyu in two weeks now, because he’s sent him away every time he comes in, needing, for some inexplicable reason, to be alone. He guesses this is the reason for Mingyu’s hesitation.</p><p>He’s also sent Wonwoo away three times out of four, but he suspects Mingyu doesn’t know that.</p><p>“Mingyu,” he decides after a moment. He tilts his head, inviting. Mingyu is still hesitant as he walks forward, which isn’t like him.</p><p>“What’s wrong?” Mingyu asks him before he can ask Mingyu the same question. Seungcheol blinks at him in surprise. “You look worried,” Mingyu says.</p><p>“I am the king,” Seungcheol says drily. “I’m always worried.”</p><p>“More worried than usual,” Mingyu amends. “Is everything alright?”</p><p>Seungcheol frowns. Sometimes he is so intensely grateful for Mingyu that it hurts. “It’s fine,” he says. It isn’t fine, of course, but the things that aren’t fine are not things Mingyu can remedy. Mingyu seems to know this, because he nods, and he sits on the pallet on the floor and smiles, and he opens his arms for Seungcheol to crawl into his embrace. Mingyu is younger than he is, but Seungcheol has always felt like a child again tucked into his broad chest, comforted beyond all reason.</p><p>“What do you think of the new ambassador?” Seungcheol asks after a few moments. “The one from the Outer Territories.”</p><p>He feels Mingyu hum more than hears him. “Not sure yet. I guess we’ll find out, right?”</p><p>“I guess.” Seungcheol turns around so his back is pressed against Mingyu and reaches for his arms to bring them up against his own chest.</p><p>“Hyung?” Mingyu says again, even softer. Seungcheol smiles despite his worry. He’s known Mingyu for a very long time. Mingyu has seen him through the worst parts of his life so far. He’s as familiar to Seungcheol as his own family, maybe even more, now.</p><p>“Yes?” he says, dropping a kiss to Mingyu’s arm. Gratifyingly, Mingyu shivers behind him. “What is it?”</p><p>Mingyu hugs Seungcheol tighter to his chest, then relaxes his arms in Seungcheol’s lap. “Nothing,” he says. “Are you going to talk about what’s bothering you?”</p><p>Seungcheol loves Mingyu. Mingyu has grown up with him, beside him. He watched Mingyu grow tall and then taller still. He remembers playing with Mingyu as a very young child, before he’d been sent to live with his grandmother. Mingyu was always there at the palace, waiting for him when he came back. He was there for him the last time, too. He was the one who held Seungcheol’s hand after they buried his mother. His hand had been warm. He’s always warm. Seungcheol had hated it, had walked out into the snow every day that winter and plunged his hands into the banks until they went numb. He thought he ought never to be warm again. But he’d squeezed Mingyu’s hand as they watched the earth cover Seungcheol’s mother.</p><p>She was the only one they could properly bury.</p><p>Seungcheol remembers thinking about her smile. For some reason, that was what he fixated on, for days after. Her smile, the one she directed at Mingyu when he would come into the palace with dirt on his knees and ask respectfully for Seungcheol to play. He hadn’t seen her smile at Mingyu like that in years, hadn’t seen Mingyu in years either. </p><p>Mingyu knows him almost better than anyone else. He disentangles himself from Seungcheol and gets up to blow out the candles around the room. Then he comes back to the bed and waits for Seungcheol to speak.</p><p>“The Outer Territories do not yet have a peaceful relationship with us,” Seungcheol whispers into the dark. He feels Mingyu’s confusion. Mingyu, who cannot sit still. Mingyu, who is not an advisor, who does not attend meetings. He should be asking Wonwoo, but sending Mingyu away now in place of Wonwoo seems a little ridiculous. And Mingyu is more willing to wrap his legs around Seungcheol and rest his hand against Seungcheol’s shoulders as he arranges himself next to Seungcheol on the bed. Being the king’s companion cannot be an easy job.</p><p>“Do you think the new ambassador will try something dangerous?” Mingyu asks. </p><p>“I hope not.” It’s an obvious answer. Seungcheol has not observed Lee Seokmin very keenly in the week since he’s been here, but he doesn’t seem like the type of person to start messing around in politics. </p><p>It makes him nervous. Why then was he chosen to be an ambassador? His father controls the Outer Territories, but a senior officer might have been a better choice. If the reason is a peaceful negotiation, that is. Seungcheol’s father was the one who annexed the area, who had put pressure on the people there—and on Lee Seokmin’s father—until they relented. That their sons should be the one to finish the deal is poetic, in a sense, he supposes. </p><p>He could see it as poetic if it didn’t leave a bitter taste in his mouth.</p><p>“Your guards will protect you,” Mingyu says reassuringly. “We will all protect you. Come here.” </p><p>Seungcheol allows himself to be pulled back onto Mingyu’s chest, warm all over. The kiss Mingyu plants on his forehead feels like a blessing. </p><p> </p><p>••</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> I have arrived at the Palace in the Hills with Lee Seokmin, whose father is the administrator and ruler of the outer hill territories in the south. The king is attempting to strengthen the cultural ties between the inner hills and the outer territories and thereby gain resources and loyalty in exchange for protection. Something is not right about this court. I will attempt to find out more, and I will send word next month. I humbly await orders otherwise. Elements favor. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Yoon Jeonghan. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>••</p><p> </p><p><em> I hope you feel as comfortable here as you do at home</em>, the king had said, and so the first thing Jeonghan does once he gets relatively settled in is flirt with the first page girl he sees to get her to tell him exactly how much freedom he has around the palace. </p><p>It turns out to be quite a lot, more than she even indicated, especially once he, Seokmin and Seungkwan develop a routine. Jeonghan and Seungkwan rise before Seokmin and help him dress, and then Seungkwan accompanies him to his meetings and courtly activities, and Jeonghan tidies up in his room and wanders around the palace. Technically, Jeonghan is more of a companion than a guard, although he had gone through training before they’d set off. That had been uncomfortable, and Jeonghan had had to pretend to have less experience than he actually did. He’s still afraid he overdid it, dropped his sword one too many times. </p><p>It would be better for his mission if he were to attend Seokmin’s meetings with him instead of Seungkwan, but he can’t be bothered to be too annoyed about it. Meetings are boring and he would have to pay attention <em> all the time</em>. Who wants that?</p><p>So his palace life mostly involves a lot of eating and listening to scholars talking and watching other people train, which, as far as he can tell, is the same for many of the other courtiers. He starts taking walks in the public part of the garden, and after three weeks he decides he’s brave enough to catch the group of people traveling down the hill to the city to look at the shops there. He is paid handsomely for his companionship. He buys himself a necklace on his birthday and wears it at the next dinner. He grins when he catches Seokmin staring at it. Companionship is rewarding, he has discovered.</p><p>(Seungkwan tells him “May the elements favor you for many years to come” as soon as they get back to their rooms. It’s funny how even people who know no elemental languages use the terms the elite magicians had designed hundreds of years ago. Jeonghan is not surprised that Seungkwan says it, but he is surprised that Seungkwan is wishing him a happy birthday at all. “Thank you,” he says. He’s touched. He didn’t think he would be.)</p><p>He also discovers that someone is in the kitchens at all times, and that he has a particular fondness for the desserts it produces. After he sneaks into the kitchens the first time, he is no longer annoyed by the fact that Seungkwan has lived in Seokmin’s villages his entire life and therefore is better suited as a guard and political advisor. He gets dessert and kitchen friends whenever he wishes. Take that, Boo Seungkwan.</p><p>Sneaking into the kitchens is how he meets Kim Mingyu. </p><p>“You’re with Lee Seokmin, right?” he hears as he walks quietly along the now-familiar path to the kitchens building. It’s not yet light out, and most of the court is in bed still. Which is, technically-speaking, where he is supposed to be as well. He stops. “I’m Kim Mingyu,” the person says behind him. Jeonghan considers his options and decides against doing anything rash, like running away or rushing up and attacking the stranger. He turns around. Mingyu is ridiculously tall, and ridiculously pretty. </p><p>“Jeonghan,” he says, unsure if he should bow. Mingyu is wearing the same white clothes as other palace servants, but his hair is long and braided, and gives Jeonghan no indication of his rank.</p><p>Mingyu smiles easily. “Great,” he says. His voice comes out through his smile, all colored with hidden laughter. “What are you doing here?”</p><p>“I’m, uh, taking a walk,” Jeonghan says. </p><p>Mingyu looks at him shrewdly. “A walk to the kitchens?” He grins when Jeonghan ducks his head. “My father is the cook,” he says. “I’ll get you some breakfast.”</p><p>The kitchens as Jeonghan has experienced them are big and kind of scary and filled with scraps to take for snacks, but the kitchens with Mingyu are a whirlwind tour of pretty faces and friendly smiles and teasing. Jeonghan has met a few people so far—Chan the dishes-washing boy, Mark the dishes-drying boy, Johnny the onion-chopper—but Mingyu seems to know everyone. And everyone lets Mingyu have a taste of whatever food they’re preparing, which means Jeonghan gets a taste, too.</p><p>“Got any tea?” Mingyu asks the main kitchen at large as he reaches over to help someone put their vegetable scraps into a bucket.</p><p>“Kim Mingyu, put that down,” a voice says loudly, commandingly, and Jeonghan takes a step away from him. Mingyu sets down the knife he just picked up with a guilty expression.</p><p>“Good morning, Father,” he says. Jeonghan looks up to see the main cook standing a few paces behind Mingyu. </p><p>Mingyu’s father smiles, but it’s gone by the time his son turns around. “Jihoon is down here already. He has the tea,” he says, then pauses to look at Jeonghan.</p><p>“Oh,” Mingyu says, blushing a bit. “This is Jeonghan; he’s Lee Seokmin’s attendant. The ambassador from the Outer Territories, you know.” The cook gives Jeonghan a once-over, and Jeonghan feels a desperate need to be adequate in his eyes. It’s a weird feeling. He’s never met anybody’s parents before aside from Seokmin’s. </p><p>Mingyu’s father must decide that Jeonghan is good enough to eat stray pieces of food from his kitchens, or something, because he nods once and then turns around, and that seems to be that.</p><p>“I have to get the tea,” Mingyu says apologetically, “but you can stick around here. Just ask someone to give you something to eat. There’s more than enough. Seriously, don’t worry about it,” he adds, misreading Jeonghan’s doubtful expression. “We have been fortunate to be very prosperous these last several years.”</p><p>It’s that, really, that eases Jeonghan’s nervousness about taking too much food. <em> Prosperous indeed</em>, he thinks as he watches Mingyu duck out into a smaller side room. The previous king’s soldiers had razed the village next to Jeonghan’s when Jeonghan was small. His family had seen the smoke from their roof. Jeonghan’s mother had tried to run down to that village to help the victims. She’d come back with burns on her face and the word that would run all the way up the mountain to the Queen: there were no survivors. </p><p>She died three days later. Jeonghan still does not know if the fire was ordinary fire, or if it was something spoken into being. Magic in the hills is rumored to be as highly regulated as it is in the mountains, but the king surely had kept magic users in his army, including fire-speakers. The Queen certainly did.</p><p>Jeonghan did not know it at the time, but the day after his mother was buried was the first day of the last year he lived in his own village. He doesn’t know what happened to his father after he was recruited up the mountain, still mourning. Nobody from his village could read, and nobody sent him any messages. He wasn’t important enough for a messenger to come all the way up the mountain for him.</p><p>Not until now, of course, now that he’s in enemy territory. He tucks a whole cucumber into his sleeve. </p><p>“That’s not good enough,” he hears Mingyu say loudly from the side room. He looks around to make sure nobody is watching him, then gives it a moment to keep it from being too obvious before he sidles closer.</p><p>“It has to be hot,” Mingyu is saying. Someone answers in a low voice, and Jeonghan can’t make it out. “Yes, alright, fine, whatever,” Mingyu says, then, “try it on your own tea first next time. We’ll have to make a new one.”</p><p>“At least drink it,” whoever it is calls after Mingyu as he stalks out of the room with a cup of tea. Mingyu seems surprised to see Jeonghan still standing there. Jeonghan tries not to look like a surprised animal caught in the open. He’s lucky, he thinks, that Mingyu seems to be distracted.</p><p>“Want some tea?” he asks Jeonghan. “It’s lukewarm. Stupid Jihoon-hyung and his stupid magic tricks. But it’s good. Sweet,” he adds, as if he’s trying to sell Jeonghan something at a market.</p><p>“Um, sure,” Jeonghan says. He takes the cup from Mingyu gingerly. It’s not even lukewarm. It’s bordering on cold.</p><p>“We need new tea,” Mingyu yells as soon as he releases his hold on the cup.</p><p>“I’ve got it,” Chan says by the tub. He has soap suds all up his arms. Mingyu looks at him doubtfully, but then seems to decide it’s fine. </p><p>“Dry your hands,” he says. “He likes—”</p><p>“I know,” Chan interrupts. “I know what he likes.” He turns to Mark, who’s already offering a towel, then waves the towel at Jeonghan in greeting. Jeonghan sips his tea, a little bemused.</p><p>“Who—” he starts, but Mingyu is across the kitchen before he can finish the thought. </p><p>“Move, please,” someone says behind Jeonghan. He turns around to find a short man with red robes and silver hair in a braid nearly as long as he is looking irritatedly up at him. He scoots out of the way. The man walks purposefully toward Mingyu.</p><p>“Mark!” someone yells, and as Mark scuttles back to the other side of the room, the first bird of the morning crows outside the window.</p><p>“Fuck,” an irritated-looking woman says, “Wen Junhui will be here any moment. Someone go get him his breakfast. Why he insists on coming down here himself I shall never know. Chan—oh, Chan’s gone to make the tea. Sooyoung—Mark—Mingyu, you stir this. I have to change my apron.”</p><p>“Seungwan,” another woman calls, and she hurries away, untying her apron as she goes.</p><p>Jeonghan takes another cucumber and slips out, laughing to himself.</p><p> </p><p>••</p><p> </p><p>Mingyu brings the tea in when Wonwoo is still asleep next to Seungcheol. He sets the tray on the low table and stands up and looks over at him, an impossibly fond expression on his face. Seungcheol sighs. He’s glad Wonwoo isn’t awake to see it.</p><p>“Good morning,” he says. Mingyu has a spot on his nose, and he needs to shave. Seungcheol considers mentioning it.</p><p>“Good morning.” Mingyu sits down and waits for Seungcheol to get out of bed before he takes a sip of the tea. He winces at the heat.</p><p>“You’re later than usual,” Seungcheol comments, sitting down across from him. Mingyu shrugs. Seungcheol watches the steam curl up around his neck, caress his cheeks.</p><p>“Jihoon’s spell didn’t work the first time. Something about fire not responding to the water. Seems hot enough now, though. For your taste,” he adds.</p><p>“Hmm.” Seungcheol looks over at the window, mostly out of habit. The sun is winking its way over the palace buildings. No birds have come in a while. He supposes it’s possible that he’s just been in too many meetings to bother with them, and if they do come, they get cleaned up before he ever sees them, but he can’t help but feel they have given up. He looks at Wonwoo’s sleeping form on the bed and tries not to feel abandoned. It’s a good thing, he reasons, if he’s lost their interest. Probably.</p><p>“Lots on your mind?” Mingyu asks him gently. </p><p>“I suppose,” Seungcheol mumbles. “No more than usual. The Outer Territories are having trouble with attacks from the south. Bands of people from the other end of the plains are coming in and taking their resources. Lots of animal attacks, that sort of thing. The whole thing reeks of magic.” He swirls his tea around ever so slightly in his cup and wonders what it would be like to be inside a whirlpool like the ones he’s read about, if it would be much different from how he feels every day in his palace. </p><p>He sips the tea. It is hot. Jihoon’s second spell worked.</p><p>Wonwoo stirs. Mingyu immediately perks up, then scoots closer to Seungcheol. Wonwoo groans softly and rolls out of bed. He pads lightly over to them, blinking sleepily. He isn’t wearing a shirt, and Mingyu and Seungcheol both watch him as he reaches into the tray to take his own tea. Wonwoo sits slightly closer to Seungcheol than he does when it’s only the two of them. Seungcheol loves them both, really, but he gets so tired of their little games.</p><p>“What are you doing here?” Wonwoo asks Mingyu.</p><p>“Bringing tea,” Mingyu says in a voice that says <em> What does it look like I’m doing here? </em>“Talking to the king about matters of state. You have a hair,” he adds, reaching over to smooth Wonwoo’s hair down. Wonwoo lets him, but he looks at Seungcheol the entire time Mingyu’s hand is on his head.</p><p>“I need a bath,” Seungcheol decides when they’re all more awake. “I’m going to see Junhui.”</p><p>They both look at him sharply. </p><p>“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” Mingyu asks. “He hasn’t been happy. I don’t know if your presence will ease him into things here or make it worse. Maybe you should ask to walk with him in the gardens instead.”</p><p>“Well.” Seungcheol gets up, shakes his shoulders. “He is my betrothed, and I am the king. Wonwoo? What do you think?” He looks down. Wonwoo worries his fingers around the rim of his cup. He doesn’t say anything. “Fine then,” Seungcheol says. “That’s settled. Someone tell what’s-his-name to get him ready. Renjun. I’ll eat with him for the midday meal.”</p><p>He doesn’t want to tell them exactly why he wants to see Junhui. Junhui is—he’s fine, he’s been Seungcheol’s betrothed since before his parents died, whatever. But he is still a mystery, even though he’s been in the palace for four months now, and Seungcheol likes to keep tabs on things. They aren’t technically supposed to have sex before their wedding, but that is a rule many people tend to ignore, and so it isn’t odd for Seungcheol to go see him when he’s feeling stressed. They ought not to question it, never mind that Mingyu’s hands have kneaded the worry out of his shoulders more often than anyone else, never mind that Wonwoo’s soft voice has lulled him to sleep countless times. </p><p>Not that he and Junhui have slept together yet. Junhui is allowed his privacy. Seungcheol knows what it’s like to lie half-awake in the dark, far away from his family, knowing that he’s fruitlessly sleeping and eating and learning how to ride horses while important things happen in other places. Sleeping with Junhui will only rub it in for him.</p><p>And Junhui hasn’t asked him about it, so Seungcheol doesn’t go to him. Once they are married, he’ll be able to call Junhui to his rooms whenever he pleases. </p><p>And for all Junhui is his betrothed, for all Junhui is <em> nice</em>, he is still a foreign presence in Seungcheol’s court. </p><p>He takes a long time to bathe. The water stays warm—another one of Jihoon’s spells. He sends the attendant away when she brings his cosmetics. She leaves them on the floor for him. He can hear Mingyu and Wonwoo sniping at each other on the other side of the screen, trying to be polite to the extreme. He finds himself wondering idly if Junhui would appreciate the smell of his perfumes, the oils in his hair. He doesn’t do it for Junhui, but he hopes he likes it anyway.</p><p>He knows Junhui doesn’t want to wed him. When they’d been betrothed, Seungcheol had been the younger son of a minor king. He would have been able to give Junhui a stable home, the glamor of a court, but nothing much more. Now he’s the king, inheritor of a larger territory fraught with divided loyalties to other lords, a court focused on old arguments between his grandparents and his parents, his father’s military legacy against the mountain kingdom—and the birds that die in his presence. </p><p>Junhui would be a fool to marry him if he wants to live a happy life; they both know it. Sometimes he wishes he had been betrothed to someone more focused on the power and glitter of it all. The ephemerality, the certainty of a tumble. Junhui is not immune to riches, of course, but it is not his world. Not like it could be. Not like it would be to the perfect sort of consort to Seungcheol’s current position, who would be pretty and bedecked and good at relieving the king’s stress, and nothing more. </p><p>Junhui is shrewd, he knows that much. Shrewd but ultimately good, he hopes. </p><p>He scrubs himself off and tries not to think about the worry he feels like a hand around his throat.</p><p> </p><p>••</p><p> </p><p>Renjun is outside Junhui’s quarters talking to Minghao, one of Junhui’s guards, when Seungcheol arrives with Sehun at his heels. He bows quickly to Seungcheol.</p><p>“Elements favor Your Highness,” Minghao says with a practiced voice. He acknowledges Sehun with a nod. </p><p>Renjun opens the door for him, and Seungcheol goes through.</p><p>The room is dark; Junhui has lit no candles, and a screen has been pushed in front of the window. The food sits on the tray on the low table. One of Junhui’s servants is sitting respectfully by the wall, apparently having already done her duty of tasting the food. Yuxin, maybe? Keran? Seungcheol doesn’t remember. Hansol has always been the one to whisper names in his ear.</p><p>“Junhui,” Seungcheol says quietly.</p><p>“Your Highness,” Junhui says from the chair he’s pushed up against the back wall of his sitting room. “Renjun tells me we are to eat the midday meal together.” His words are polite, if a little clumsy. Seungcheol had often wondered, before they had met each other, if he knew Seungcheol’s language, whether the things they would whisper at night would mean anything to each other. He still wonders this.</p><p>He clears his throat. “Yes, I thought we could, um. Talk. Just about how you’re settling in.” He feels bad for having neglected Junhui for so long, but not bad enough to seriously make an effort. Junhui turns toward him, tilting his head rather coquettishly, and watches him being nervous.</p><p>Junhui smiles—a tiny, fickle thing. “Did you come only to talk?” he asks, voice smooth despite his foreign accent.</p><p>Junhui is actually quite attractive. He’s flirted with Seungcheol on every occasion they have met. It makes everything more difficult. Junhui is difficult. “I don’t force myself into your room for other things,” Seungcheol says. </p><p>Junhui looks surprised, which Seungcheol is momentarily annoyed by. He’s been here months; he should know by now what sort of man Seungcheol is.</p><p><em> You rarely see him on purpose</em>, a voice in his head says. <em> And he cannot come to you</em>.</p><p>He ignores the voice. He is not a conventional king. He has been reminded of this fact many, many times by his officers and advisors. He’s a king who takes too many to bed, a young king who does not know what he wants. They say he’s a king who grieves still for his family, whose judgment is clouded and who cares more for villagers nearby than the economic safety of his kingdom. </p><p>“Come,” he says to Junhui, a little too harshly. “Eat.” Sehun goes to taste the food while Junhui makes a show of getting up out of his chair.</p><p>Mingyu’s father seems to have prepared some dish that he must think reminds Junhui of home. He was a soldier for Seungcheol’s own father, a long time ago. He has probably traveled to Junhui’s home territory. Seungcheol makes a mental note to ask him, then revises it to ask him to make different dishes when Junhui makes a face.</p><p>“Not good?” he asks, forgetting, in his concern, that he’s supposed to be fulfilling his role.</p><p>Junhui shakes his head with a cough and a raised eyebrow. “It’s fine.”</p><p>“It didn’t look fine.” </p><p>Junhui smiles a little at this, and Seungcheol counts that as a point for himself in this tug-rope game. “It isn’t fantastic,” Junhui concedes, “but it’s fine. Better than I was expecting.”</p><p>“Mingyu’s father has traveled far.” Seungcheol picks up his chopsticks and begins to eat. It tastes good to him. He wonders if Mingyu grew up with these types of dishes. He’ll have to ask him. Tonight, maybe, if he feels like having Mingyu in his bed.</p><p>He looks up to see Junhui eyeing him cautiously. “What is it?” he asks.</p><p>Junhui runs his tongue over his teeth under his lips. “You… I’m not sure if I’m supposed to ask this,” he says.</p><p>Seungcheol frowns. “If there is anyone you ought to be able to ask things, it is me.”</p><p>Junhui lifts his eyebrow higher at this but seems to take the offer. “You have… companions,” he says, “right?”</p><p>“Mingyu,” Seungcheol confirms, feeling the need to give Junhui information to make up for neglecting him for so long. “There have been others, but yes.” He remembers begging Sehun to leave his post outside his rooms two weeks into his role as captain of Seungcheol’s guard. Taeyong, before he left to study in the south. Jongin, sometimes, when he’s in the area. Chanyeol. Joohyun. Taeyeon. He knows the rumors about himself. </p><p>“I thought so,” Junhui says. “They’re all fairly tall, aren’t they?”</p><p>It’s not the question Seungcheol was expecting. He barely holds back a startled laugh. “Most of them,” he says. He thinks about the tight fit of Taeyong’s hands around him, the way he had leaned his head back against Seungcheol’s shoulder and snored softly. It had been almost too easy to grasp his wrists, to bite his shoulder, and so Seungcheol hadn’t. He’d let Taeyong sit on top of him and lick his way down his neck. Joohyun, too, is the smallest member of his personal guard. But Junhui is not wrong.</p><p>“Is that what you like?” Junhui asks. He sits up straighter. Seungcheol slouches down the tiniest bit in quiet retaliation. </p><p>“What?”</p><p>“You like tall companions?” Junhui says, getting up now. “Taller than you?” </p><p>He looms over Seungcheol. Seungcheol stares up at him. He’s intimidating when he’s confident, he realizes. It makes him wonder what else there is about him that Seungcheol does not know, could not know in their present environment. He has the wild urge to grab Junhui and run off to a farm in the middle of nowhere. Just like everything else, it’s an urge he resists.</p><p>“What are you asking?” he says.</p><p>“Do you want me or not?” Junhui demands. His smile is a little wry. He really is beautiful. He could be the perfect consort: made-up and bejeweled and making people bring him things. He licks his lips. </p><p>Seungcheol looks up at him, just looks and looks. The more the moment draws out the more awkward it becomes, until it feels like Junhui is standing on a hill opposite him with a whole valley in between.</p><p>It’s not that he doesn’t want Junhui. He just—he just doesn’t know Junhui.</p><p>He doesn’t want Junhui to know him.</p><p>“Fine,” Junhui says at length. His shoulders sag, though he immediately picks them back up. Seungcheol hates it. He remembers the descriptions he’d received of Junhui as a young adult, back when he’d been living at his grandmother’s. Many letters came detailing Junhui’s prowess at archery, the travels he had undertaken, the political ramifications of their proposed union. A few came actually describing Junhui. All of those ones mentioned how cheerful he was. They said he was carefree and delightful. He does not seem delightful now.</p><p>“Then, Your Highness, may I walk in the gardens with a companion of my own?” Junhui asks. </p><p>Seungcheol is only slightly taken aback, again. It’s a bold question, a bold choice of words. The role of companion is not exactly defined. The king’s betrothed is allowed to have friends, of course, and people to accompany them. Lovers are different. Companions are the quiet occupiers of the space between <em> friend </em> and <em> lover</em>, and sometimes, historically, <em> spy</em>. </p><p>It comes down to this: Seungcheol feels bad. It is because of this that he makes his first mistake when it comes to Junhui. “You can walk anywhere you like,” he says. “I recommend studying in the gardens as well as walking. There are plenty of books in the library, about all sorts of subjects. I hope such trips bring you peace here. You are not a prisoner, Junhui,” he says softly. “You are the king’s betrothed.”</p><p>Junhui looks at his face. It’s sad, Seungcheol thinks. He looks at him like he’s seeing their graves, placed neatly next to each other, like he can see years into the bleakest of futures, like such a future is tomorrow.</p><p>“Finish eating,” Seungcheol says. “I need to leave.” Their conversation is over.</p><p> </p><p>••</p><p> </p><p>“Mingyu’s father used to be a soldier,” Chan tells Jeonghan one morning while Jeonghan helps him and Doyoung unpack a cart from one of the farms on the other side of the nearest hill. Jeonghan has discovered that nobody knows things like the servants of the courts do, and there’s not much to do but talk when you’re doing something so tedious as unloading grain and meats and vegetables from carts for an hour. Goings-on in the palace are to be kept within its walls, and so everyone is eager to talk to new people like Jeonghan. </p><p>People talk inside the kitchens, too, but it’s noisier there, and Jeonghan looks more conspicuous if he’s just standing around and not helping, because he really cannot cook. At least here he can lift a few sacks of buckwheat and then sit inside the cart and chat. </p><p>Chan likes doing the sort of heavy work that makes his muscles scream. And he is easy to talk to—it’s easy to get him to talk.</p><p>“That’s why the kitchens are always so busy and so uniform,” Chan says. “Pass me that cabbage, please. No, that one. Yes. That’s why he knows how to stretch so much food. We’ve had plenty to work with in recent years, but when I first came here, there was a shortage. He never let us starve.” He shakes his head. “I can’t imagine being a soldier,” he says.</p><p>Jeonghan holds the second cucumber in his lap for a moment. “It’s tough,” he says. There’s no <em> it’s tough, but</em>. There was never any way around it for Jeonghan; he trained as a youth and expects to fulfill his duty to the Queen in some other way when he returns to the mountains. Maybe he will become a scribe of some sort. He doesn’t wish to be one of the training masters, someone who never leaves the bloody grounds of youth.</p><p>Chan eyes him curiously. “Were you ever in the military, in the Outer Territories?” he asks.</p><p>“I was trained,” Jeonghan says, handing him the cucumber. There’s a bruise on it. It makes Jeonghan smile. “Lee Seokmin’s father keeps an informal defense army. Since he has come under the king’s protection.” This is true.</p><p>“Ah,” Chan says.</p><p>“What about you?” Jeonghan asks. He’s almost certain that, should there be a great need, all capable people must go to war. </p><p>Chan shrugs. “Not sure. Maybe I’ll be appointed something other than a soldier. Bad eyesight,” he explains. “It’s why I’m the dishes-washing boy and not the one who finely chops garlic.” He grins. “If there’s a war, maybe everyone will leave, even the king. Then it will just be me and the Spider in this place.”</p><p>Jeonghan looks around the cart and finds a small pile of apples. He tosses one at Chan, who nearly drops it. He scowls at Jeonghan, gesturing to his eyes.</p><p>“The Spider?” Jeonghan says, trying not to appear too concerned. It's the most intriguing thing he's heard since Yixing's blunder at dinner his first week at the palace.</p><p>Chan’s scowl morphs into a smile again. “The Spider,” he confirms. “You’d better watch out, or he’ll snatch you up into his little web.” He tosses the next apple into the air, catches it perfectly this time. He hands it to Doyoung, who’s standing next to the kitchen door and scowling at him. Doyoung puts the apple into his basket very deliberately. Jeonghan tosses another one at him. He grabs it out of mid-air without breaking his gaze at Chan. </p><p>Jeonghan huffs. <em> Dickhead</em>, he thinks, even as he is impressed. There’s no malice behind it, though. Doyoung has set aside a bit of kimchi for him the last three days.</p><p>“Technically, I’m not supposed to know any information about the Spider,” Chan tells Jeonghan in a hushed voice, glancing warily at Doyoung before miming sewing his mouth shut. “All I know is that he likes candied fruit,” he adds, defeating the purpose of his miming, which took him several seconds. Good work, wasted, just like that.</p><p>“Hmm,” Jeonghan says, and tosses another apple at Doyoung. While he and Chan are distracted, he slips two more up his sleeve.</p><p>“Anyway,” Chan says, “all I’m trying to say is if you treat Mingyu’s father like your own father, he will treat you like a son.” </p><p>Jeonghan rubs his arm against his thigh to push the apple further up his sleeve. Chan doesn’t seem to notice. “I don’t have much experience with other people’s parents,” he says. “I haven’t seen mine in years, either.”</p><p>“Really? I see mine all the time,” Chan says. Jeonghan prides himself on being very perceptive; he knows that Chan doesn’t mean it in any sort of mean-spirited way. But the casual way he says it makes something inside Jeonghan twist up.</p><p>“Yes,” he says, “really.” He lets one of the apples fall out of his sleeve. There are now three apples inside his clothes. He didn’t even notice he had picked up two more. </p><p>Chan looks at him, really looks at his face this time. His mouth wobbles. “Sorry, hyung,” he says quietly. “I didn’t mean it like that.”</p><p>“I know,” Jeonghan says, sighing loudly. “It’s alright, anyway. It’s been years. I don’t need parents. I’m an adult, of course.”</p><p>Chan gives him an odd look. “Of course,” he repeats. Then: “Pass me that last apple?”</p><p>Jeonghan does. </p><p> </p><p>••</p><p> </p><p>Jeonghan is under strict orders not to use his magic. The law in the hills is such, but more than that, his Queen has commanded it. He must be on-guard and present at all times. Using his magic takes a lot out of him. </p><p>This is something common to the various types of magic. He’d watched Joshua train and train and train, and later he’d massaged his muscles back into soft flesh. Joshua used to be so flexible. He’s probably given that up by now. </p><p>The palace wizard, Jeonghan has learned, is very powerful indeed. This is why he stays in the palace and is not allowed outside. Most people from the palace aren’t allowed outside its walls for privacy reasons, but this is for his own safety.</p><p>“You can go mad with magic,” Mingyu tells him one day in the kitchens. “I’ve heard fire-speakers burn from the inside out sometimes, if they use it too much. Eventually you just stop being a person. The magic consumes you. You probably don’t know it, but when the king’s grandfather was the ruler, his palace wizard drowned himself. He wasn’t allowed to go out of the palace either, but someone brought in a large bucket of water. He wanted to unite with it, somehow. Our wizard has a better head on his shoulders, but you can see the physical toll. His hair has gone grey already, and all he drinks is this awful sweet concoction. Someone brings him all his drinks and things. We have to be very careful.” He gives a significant look to the bucket of soapy water currently occupied by dirty dishes and Chan’s entire arms. </p><p>“He means <em> he </em> is careful,” Chan tells Jeonghan in a low voice once Mingyu has gotten tea and left again. “The wizard has guards, but no one cares about him like Mingyu-hyung does.”</p><p>“Does he know magic, too?” Jeonghan wants to know. “Elemental languages or otherwise?”</p><p>Chan scrubs at a pot. “No,” he says. “Mingyu is normal. He doesn’t even do light village spells. Maybe that’s why the wizard loves him so much.” He freezes for a split-second, then relaxes as he gives the pot to Mark to dry off. <em> Interesting</em>, Jeonghan thinks.</p><p>“Did this wizard know the king’s father?” he asks. </p><p>“No,” Chan laughs. “He is very powerful, and he has studied a lot. But he’s young, younger than you. It has taken a lot out of him. Water-speaking is not a kind language, though I’ve heard fire-speaking is worse.”</p><p>“And does the king know magic?” </p><p>“That’s not our business,” Mark interrupts. “Pass me that cup.”</p><p>Jeonghan takes this to mean <em> yes, probably</em>. And magic or not, the king is a wonder to behold. He <em> is </em> brooding. Jeonghan often sees him moping around. He likes to stand in his study in the gardens and stare out into the trees without really looking at anything. Jeonghan knows this because he spends a great deal of time watching the king while he’s supposed to be studying on his own. </p><p>He’s restless, that much is clear. He paces around with his books and leaves them so he can toy with the little fish in the pond. He hums to himself as he copies things down. He practices his fighting stances. </p><p>But even so, he is studious. He knows how to concentrate. And Jeonghan is fascinated by him. </p><p>The king cuts an imposing figure when he wants to. Jeonghan has seen him in the streets of the palace, too, all regal and commanding. But when he thinks he’s alone—</p><p>Jeonghan aches to categorize him, to put into words the line of the king’s shoulders, the odd angle of his head compared to his hunched back as he leans on the railing of his study. He looks sweet. Dangerous, powerful. Capable. Jeonghan wants to drink him in and write down every little fact about him.</p><p>The king mutters to himself about the history and uses of elemental speech, and Jeonghan finds himself increasingly itching to burst out from behind his hiding place among the trees to tell him what he has learned. </p><p>But Jeonghan is not a registered elemental speaker. He’s not even an elemental-speaker. He has only learned about the languages of the elements in a purely theoretical setting. Nobody wanted to teach him the practical lessons. His magic was useful enough already, draining enough already. </p><p>And so Jeonghan doesn’t interrupt. He just watches.</p><p> </p><p>••</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Elements favor your lordship. Your son Lee Seokmin, elements favor him as well, continues to be in good health and good spirits in the palace. He spends much of his time discussing policies with the officials, and an equal amount of time learning with the scholars. The king’s officers seem favorable toward him, and the king, elements favor him, is not hostile. Winter has reached the mountains, we have heard. We await good tidings from the homeland.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Your humble servant, </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Yoon Jeonghan. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>••</p><p> </p><p>Seungcheol cannot stop thinking about the birds. He had another one this morning, on his windowsill again. He'd found it just as he was leaving to go to his duties. Its remains have lived in his head the entire day. He needs some relief, something to get his mind off of things.</p><p>What he really needs is Soonyoung. He'd asked this bird about him, too, had watched it die before it could leave his windowsill. There's something off about the birds. They remind him of Soonyoung, somehow. Before the last day they'd seen each other. He can't quite put his finger on why.</p><p>He can't talk to Soonyoung, of course, and so the next best thing is Wonwoo. </p><p>Wonwoo fucks him differently from anyone else. He knows what makes Seungcheol tick more than most people do, with the possible exception of Mingyu. He treats Seungcheol like—like something precious, but not easily damaged. Like the sword he does not carry. </p><p>And he really likes sucking dick.</p><p>This can be an issue, sometimes, because Seungcheol usually wants to talk to him. The role of a bedfellow is as much advisor as it is anything else. But right now, Seungcheol is not in the mood to talk. He beckons to Wonwoo as soon as he enters, bares his neck and shoulders and chest, and Wonwoo comes to him next to the pallet without hesitation. He kneels in front of Seungcheol and makes quick work of Seungcheol’s pants and gets his hands on his dick, and Seungcheol grits his teeth and listens to his own breathing catch and grow heavy.</p><p>Something is up with Wonwoo, he knows. He’s been acting—strange, lately. Focused but distant at the same time.</p><p>He gets Seungcheol fully hard before he stops to stand up and peer at Seungcheol’s face. Seungcheol tries to appear relaxed instead of stressed out of his mind. It clearly doesn’t work. Wonwoo’s expression softens.</p><p>“Sit down, Highness,” he says kindly. Seungcheol shivers a little as he arranges himself on the pallet. The warm floor brings a welcome relief from the cold air, and he feels Wonwoo’s urgency come upon him all of a sudden, his need to be skin-on-skin. Wonwoo’s blood is warm in his veins. Seungcheol is aware of it, like it’s a tiny fluttering second heartbeat. It’s the water-tongue in him. It’s the part that he tries to ignore.</p><p>“Wonwoo,” he says breathlessly, just to say something, and Wonwoo gets himself down to his underclothes in record time and crawls on top of Seungcheol and licks just below his ear. He’s eager tonight.</p><p>“Your Highness,” Wonwoo says. He’s never been one to call Seungcheol anything else. He begins the process of licking and biting down Seungcheol’s neck, over his chest, down his stomach. Seungcheol closes his eyes and half-loses himself in the sensation of Wonwoo’s tongue over his skin. He feels warm and wet and oddly comforted, like Wonwoo waking his nerves up one by one is reminding him that he has a body, that his body is here, in this moment.</p><p>Wonwoo kisses down Seungcheol’s legs to his knees, then sits up. His face is perfectly impassive. Seungcheol tenses immediately. </p><p>Wonwoo slowly brings his hands down Seungcheol’s sides, down to his thighs, over the swell of them, until his thumb rests against Seungcheol’s inner thigh, just below where his dick is. He ignores the flushed, hard cock that’s right in front of him, <em>what the fuck, Wonwoo</em>, and instead pushes a thumb into Seungcheol’s skin, and <em>oh</em>.</p><p>“Did Kim Mingyu give you these?” Wonwoo asks, voice deep as an ocean, dangerous. He pushes on the bruises more, and Seungcheol suppresses a shiver but doesn’t manage to keep down his soft groan. “Did he fuck you as hard as it looks like?” Wonwoo says. “You liked that?”</p><p>He knows Seungcheol did. Knows that he does. He hasn’t had Wonwoo in his bed in four days, hasn’t had Mingyu in three, and still Mingyu breaking over him is what he thought about when he woke up this morning. Mingyu is obliging in the perfect stubborn way. Their give-and-take dynamic grounds Seungcheol like a mirror. </p><p>Wonwoo, on the other hand. Wonwoo is exhilarating. Seungcheol stares up at him and doesn’t respond, though Wonwoo is clearly waiting for an answer. He glances down. Wonwoo is hard, tenting his underpants.</p><p>“Highness,” Wonwoo says reverently, breathlessly, breaking the moment. </p><p>Seungcheol decides he’s done waiting and props himself up on one hand to kiss Wonwoo. Wonwoo responds eagerly to Seungcheol’s mouth, to the press of his tongue, to Seungcheol’s hand on the back of his neck. He bites at Seungcheol’s lip like he always does, waits with trembling hands to let go like he always does.</p><p>Wonwoo knows what makes Seungcheol tick, which is why Seungcheol isn’t surprised when he breaks the kiss to mouth up Seungcheol’s jaw toward his ear again, when he says in his smooth voice, “What do you want, baby?” And Seungcheol cannot help his violent shudder this time. He’s so, so hard with his dick trapped between his own body and Wonwoo’s. Wonwoo grins on his neck.</p><p>Seungcheol lies back down and brings his legs up around Wonwoo and squeezes his once-skinny frame. The light pressure against the bruises Mingyu left makes him dizzy. He wants—fuck, Wonwoo has always been good at this. Wonwoo shifts his body slowly, rolls his hips up, presses his clothed cock against Seungcheol’s. </p><p>Seungcheol gathers up his want like a net and envelops Wonwoo in it. It’s like Wonwoo has pulled some lever in his brain somewhere, in his body. He’s almost frantic with desire now. He has missed the feeling of skin, of pressure. He’s missed Wonwoo. “Let me fuck your mouth?” he asks, halfway to pleading. </p><p>Wonwoo’s big hands grip tightly around his ribs. “Yes,” he says, barely keeping his own desire in check, “yes, whatever you want.”</p><p>Seungcheol loves watching Wonwoo let go. He settles on his elbows and gets his mouth around Seungcheol’s cock again with enthusiasm, slides his tongue out, pulls back, dives in for more. He works Seungcheol over, and Seungcheol gets lost in it, fucking drowns in it. The noises Wonwoo is making are filthy. He moans loudly enough that surely one of the guards outside can hear it. Seungcheol bucks up into his mouth.</p><p>Wonwoo rewards him by pulling off and then going back in and gently grazing his teeth along the vein, so gently it makes Seungcheol ache. Seungcheol’s hips stutter again, and Wonwoo groans and pulls off to grab at Seungcheol’s hands. He helps Seungcheol up and leads him to the wall and presses his large hands down on Seungcheol’s hips. Seungcheol will probably have new bruises tomorrow. </p><p>Wonwoo drags a pillow from the bedding over and kneels on it. He looks at Seungcheol for a moment before he starts kissing up his thigh. He bites and licks and sucks, hard, when he gets to Mingyu’s bruises. Seungcheol tips his head back against the wall with a thump.</p><p>“Wonwoo,” Seungcheol says, groans out. Wonwoo pushes his hips back into the wall. He sucks another bruise into Seungcheol’s inner thigh, then looks up. Seungcheol looks back down at him. He’s so beautiful like this, with his dark, expressive eyes all big and hungry, gaze trained on Seungcheol with a cock in his face. He looks half-feral, nothing like his usual reserved self.</p><p>Then Wonwoo grins. “You want to fuck my mouth so badly you’re almost gagging with it,” he says. </p><p>He’s not wrong, either. Seungcheol’s poor cock is hard, hard and neglected. Wonwoo won’t stop digging his fingers into Seungcheol’s thighs, into his hips. “I don’t need to talk tomorrow,” he says, and then he leans in slowly and deliberately and drops a kiss to the tip of Seungcheol’s cock. It’s not a little friendly peck, though it starts out as a simple press of lips. He opens his mouth and licks at the slit a little, purses his lips again.</p><p>Seungcheol has always been sensitive. He gasps and jerks and whines, and Wonwoo sits back with a satisfied smile. There’s a smear of precome on his lips. </p><p>The thing about Wonwoo that Seungcheol appreciates is that he does not beg. He just opens his mouth and swallows Seungcheol down. He reaches up for Seungcheol’s hands and brings them around to the back of his head, then gets his fingers around the rest of Seungcheol’s cock. He feels so hot, fuck, his mouth is so wet and his throat is tight and his tongue is everywhere and Seungcheol wants to let go of everything, wants to leap without looking, wants Wonwoo to swallow him whole. He fucks into Wonwoo’s throat and grips his hair, and Wonwoo looks like he’s having the time of his life. </p><p>Seungcheol can feel his hands wandering around on his ass and thighs. He finds new places to grip Seungcheol’s body. Seungcheol is not stupid; he knows how it works: Mingyu fucks hard, and Wonwoo wants to be better. He always has. And he shows Seungcheol: he moans around his cock, chokes on it, squeezes Seungcheol’s ass, reaches down to—</p><p><em>Fuck</em>. Seungcheol almost <em>wails</em> when Wonwoo rubs his finger over Seungcheol’s perineum. He bonks his head against the wall again, then gathers his wits enough to look down at Wonwoo. </p><p>Big mistake. Wonwoo looks blissed-out, mouth stretched wide over Seungcheol’s cock. He squeezes his eyes shut in pleasure with every noise Seungcheol makes. He’s the one gagging for it, so eager for Seungcheol, so—</p><p>“Wonwoo,” Seungcheol warns, and Wonwoo opens his eyes the tiniest bit and gazes up at him as he swallows around Seungcheol’s cock and pushes his finger in just so. Seungcheol falls, tumbles, sinks to the bottom of the ocean. He shakes against the wall and feels the sweat sliding around on his back. His vision goes fuzzy as he comes down Wonwoo’s throat. And Wonwoo swallows it all, takes it and takes it. </p><p>Seungcheol sags against the wall. Wonwoo holds his hands gently and guides him to the pallet on the floor. Seungcheol kisses him lazily, sloppily. His brain isn’t fully functioning again yet. Wonwoo is making little noises into his mouth, and he realizes that Wonwoo is still hard. He can feel the wetness against his leg where Wonwoo has leaked through his pants.</p><p>Wonwoo groans softly when Seungcheol undoes the rest of his clothing. He sits up against the wall and positions Wonwoo with his back against Seungcheol’s chest. Through his post-orgasmic haze, he thinks he remembers Junhui saying something about this—something about tall men. Well. He’s always had a type.</p><p>“Like that,” Wonwoo says, and tips his head back onto Seungcheol’s shoulder as Seungcheol gets his hand around his cock. Wonwoo does not writhe against him like Seungcheol would, like Mingyu does. He takes this, too: bucks up into Seungcheol’s fist, bites his lips against his cries, comes with a gasp all over Seungcheol’s fingers. </p><p>“Good?” Wonwoo asks drowsily after they’ve cleaned themselves up and blown out the candles. </p><p>Seungcheol nods. He pulls back the covers and gets into bed. He brushes his feet against Wonwoo’s calves. Wonwoo rolls to the side so that no part of his body is less than a hand’s-breadth away. </p><p>“Goodnight,” Seungcheol says.</p><p>“Goodnight,” Wonwoo says quietly. “Feel better?”</p><p>Seungcheol doesn’t answer.</p><p> </p><p>••</p><p> </p><p>Mingyu calls himself Jeonghan’s friend after two months and completely blindsides him. </p><p>There’s a little more to it than that, but when Mingyu leaves him at the door to Seokmin’s rooms to go off to do whatever he does in the evenings, that is the part of the conversation that Jeonghan holds with him like a pretty shell on a necklace. Well, that and—</p><p>“I didn’t see you today,” Mingyu pouts. They’re walking back from the kitchens, where their meetings have started to become regular occurrences. </p><p>“Was I supposed to be somewhere?” Jeonghan asks. </p><p>Mingyu shrugs. Jeonghan is momentarily jealous that he can move so well. It’s starting to get cold, and he doesn’t have a proper warm hat. But Mingyu radiates warmth in every sense. “I thought you’d want to see the petition,” Mingyu says. “Some officials from the south have sent a petition to the king. Not as far down as the Outer Territories, but they’re nearby. I’d have thought you’d want to hear news of your town.”</p><p>“Why?” Jeonghan says. </p><p>He’s asking <em> Why are they petitioning? </em>but Mingyu doesn’t take it that way.</p><p>“Because you’re my friend,” he says simply.</p><p>Jeonghan hasn’t had a friend since Joshua. <em> Maybe </em> Seokmin counts; he likes Seokmin. The thought that anyone would look at <em> him </em> and say <em> Yes, I’d like to be friends with that man; I want to know him; I want to name our relationship this way</em>—it stops him short, makes his head spin.</p><p>“I mean what did they want?” he says after a beat. He glances up at Mingyu. Mingyu is already looking at him, which means he isn't looking at where he's going. He trips on a little dip in the ground in front of them. He flings his arms out and cries out as he hits the hard surface, then hisses as he sits up. His hands are scraped. They look like they’re going to start bleeding any moment.</p><p><em> You’re my friend</em>, Jeonghan thinks. “Are you alright? Do you need medical attention?” he asks.</p><p>Mingyu grins. He looks almost excited at the prospect. “I’ll get it cleaned up; don’t worry.” He stands up and brushes his hands together, which is probably going to rub the dirt further into his cut. “Anyway, they had concerns about the king’s policies regarding magic for the use of farming. Some of them want to redirect a river. I don’t know how it’s been handled in the Outer Territories before, but our policy is that the course of nature is to be borrowed from, used from the inside, you know, and not changed from its intended course.”</p><p>Jeonghan thinks of the floods in the lowlands, the dip in the terrain right between the plains and the mountains. The way the river at the base of the mountain overflowed. The children who drowned in the wells every few months for five years, like a plague, or a curse. It always seemed a cruel joke to him, that the rivers should bubble freely from the top of the mountain only to tumble straight into the hands of those who would control them without a single regard for the will of the waters. He had never met a water-speaker before he went up to the palace at the top of the mountain, but even before then he could never imagine that the life-giving rivers would desire to stop life like that. A mix of water and death is an awful thing, he has come to know. </p><p>“I looked for you while all the other petitions were being discussed,” Mingyu says cheerfully, unaware of his thoughts. “I’d have thought you would be there for that one; it was the last one.”</p><p>Tenderness, that old forgotten weapon, cuts into Jeonghan’s heartstrings one by one. “I didn’t know about it,” he says softly. “What were the other petitions about?”</p><p>“Oh, theft, land, payment for work, familial duties, familial ties, that sort of thing. You know,” he says, brushing the hairs that have escaped from his braid aside and glancing down at Jeonghan, “the usual.”</p><p>“Mm.” Jeonghan does not know. The Queen does not hear petitions from many people. Completion of a mission grants people one request, which she may or may not deign to acknowledge.  </p><p>“Did the lord of the Outer Territories not hear petitions?” Mingyu says. </p><p>“I don’t know. I never went to court until I was selected to be a companion for my lord.” He had been in the Queen’s official court only once, a few years before. He’d watched a wind-speaker burn. Everyone at court had been required to be present. The wind-speaker had tried to teach her magic to someone in a village farther up the mountain from hers. Both of them were unregistered, of course. The only registered magic-users in the mountains belong to the Queen.</p><p>Her wind had only fanned the flames. Jeonghan remembers looking at the Queen as she’d burned in the middle of the courtyard. It was the only time he’d been close enough to the Queen to see her face. She wore a dark, sheer veil against the brightness, and the red of the flames had flickered across it, making it look like her eyes themselves were made of fire. </p><p>“Do you have something you would like to ask the king?” Mingyu asks, sounding amused. </p><p>Does he have something to ask the king? Jeonghan snorts. “Sure,” he says, “what’s his favorite thing to eat?” Mingyu laughs, too. Jeonghan preens.</p><p>“He likes kimchi a lot,” Mingyu says, suddenly serious. Jeonghan looks up at him in surprise. It’s not the fact that’s surprising; it’s the certainty with which Mingyu says it. Mingyu shrugs, blushing a little. Interesting. “I’ve known him since I was a child,” he says.</p><p>“Mm,” Jeonghan says again. </p><p>“Really,” Mingyu says, “if you’re having a problem or something, you can always ask him. He’ll try to help. He’s like that.”</p><p>Jeonghan knew one of the children who drowned in one of the wells. She had been his playmate when he was very young. He did not understand death at that point. He’d only known enough to miss her. “I’ll keep it in mind,” he says, hating himself.</p><p>“Really,” Mingyu insists again. “You may not know it, coming from the Outer Territories, but this king keeps a very informal sort of court.” He says it so kindly Jeonghan cannot fault him for anything. There is no pity in his voice, no <em> poor little villager in the big palace</em>.</p><p>And Mingyu is right, anyway. Jeonghan does not know how this court in the hills is supposed to work compared to any other court. His Queen’s court is rigid, and there are many rules, but when he was there he was never a courtier, never even a servant to a courtier. He was just one of the Queen’s boys, training hard every day, hoping for a scrap of favor to send along down the mountain to his family, just like all the others in the Palace Army. </p><p>What a misleading name. They were never truly an army, nor are they intended to be. <em> More like ants</em>, Joshua had whispered to him one time as they did press-ups for the third hour straight. The sun had not come up yet. Jeonghan remembers the way Joshua’s hair had framed his face in the dim light, or at least, he has an image of it in his head that he recalls sometimes, just to take it out and run his mind’s fingers over it again. They’d been fifteen. It was the last year Jeonghan had seen him. <em> She sits there and we all run around and bring her little treasures. No personality for us, no wishes. </em> Joshua had shaken his head minutely, conscious of the teacher standing over them.</p><p><em> How long do you think she’s been alive? </em> Jeonghan had asked him afterward, whether it was that night or a different night he cannot remember now. His parents never spoke of any other ruler. The Queen had no children and no consort, at least none that Jeonghan had been aware of. Joshua had only looked at him for a long, long time before answering, <em> I don’t know</em>. And Jeonghan had closed his eyes and leaned his head down against the cool earth of their barracks and said, <em> Ants respect their dead</em>.</p><p>Mingyu touches Jeonghan’s shoulder, then his back, when they arrive in front of Seokmin’s rooms. His hand doesn’t linger, and it’s nothing but a solid reminder of his warm, friendly presence, but it awakens something in the pit of Jeonghan’s stomach that he hadn’t quite realized was dormant. A need, a want. Not for Mingyu, just for touch, for contact. The only person he’s really touched since he’s been here has been Seokmin. He’s flirted with plenty of people in the palace so far, but mostly it’s just been the friendly sort of flirting that comes naturally to him the kind that people expect from a foreigner with a pretty face. No follow-through, no problems. But his hands have ached. They ache now.</p><p>He turns around. Mingyu smiles at him. It’s nice—a little closed-off, but <em> nice </em> all the same. Mingyu, Jeonghan thinks, is his friend, too.</p><p>“Goodnight,” Mingyu tells him before he can say anything stupid, like <em> would you like to come in </em>or<em> do you know anyone who’s a little lonely right now who could use some company, a no-strings-attached kind of thing, you know, one night of casual pleasantness between strangers? </em></p><p>“Goodnight,” Jeonghan says back. And then Mingyu leaves, and Jeonghan is left to enter Seokmin’s rooms alone. </p><p>Seokmin isn’t there, but Jeonghan doesn’t have the energy to try to track him down. <em> He’s allowed to go where he wants</em>, he tells Seokmin’s father in his head, trying not to construct a fake conversation wherein he gets yelled at by anybody’s parents. He’s had quite enough of being yelled at for one lifetime.</p><p>It doesn’t work, but the voice he hears is his own. <em> Be careful! </em> it says. There’s gaining rapport with the enemy to get information out of them, and then there is making friends. The thing is, he knows he’s always been good at reading people, at reading situations. It is, after all, a primary reason he was chosen for this task. He can tell he’s teetering on the edge of actually liking it here.</p><p>Mingyu is annoyingly kind. <em> You can always ask him. He’ll try to help; he’s like that</em>, he had said. Jeonghan thinks of the king standing next to his study in the garden, fiddling with the end of his long braid and looking like the loneliest person in the world. </p><p>He sits down on the edge of Seokmin’s bedding, feels the warmth seep into his bones. <em> Fuck</em>, he thinks eloquently, burying his face in his hands. <em> Fuck, fuck, fuck</em>.</p><p> </p><p>••</p><p> </p><p>Seungcheol is already waiting when Jihoon comes out into the public room of the Elemental Hall. Even still, he is early, as usual. He wears comfortable clothes. He’s the only one in the palace who does so, and Seungcheol does not reprimand him for it. The palace wizard is almost as high a position as the king’s. They are like the sun and moon, not in a hierarchy but rather existing as two spheres, ever focused on the people of the Earth. That’s how it’s supposed to be, anyway. There are stories in the library of wizards using palace resources for their own gains, of rulers using the wizards without a thought to the magical toll. </p><p>Jihoon does not announce himself. He just walks in and sits himself down at the table and waits for Seungcheol to stop pacing around the room and join him. He has great patience. Jihoon gives him a hard stare when he finally sits down, and Seungcheol knows he deserves it. He knows he’s been—a bit immature, lately. A bit of a brat, to use Wonwoo’s wording.</p><p>Jihoon folds back the sleeves of his red robes and uncricks his neck. He doesn’t bother with pleasantries, either. “The property of water is such that it adheres to itself,” he begins, “creating a barrier between it and the air. This is why water droplets resist wind. What does not resist wind?”</p><p>Seungcheol sighs, dramatically flopping his head onto his arm. “Earth,” he answers grumpily. “And fire.”</p><p>Jihoon gives him no acknowledgement of his answer. Seungcheol knows he’s correct. “And what resists fire?” Jihoon asks.</p><p>“Earth,” Seungcheol groans again. “And water stops it but can be overcome. Everything must be in balance; I <em> know </em> this.”</p><p>“So what happens when a fire-speaker and a water-speaker fight?” Jihoon demands. He must be in a particularly bad mood today, because he is usually marginally more relaxed than this. Marginally. His bad mood is making Seungcheol more contrary.</p><p>“It depends on the strength of the people using the magics,” Seungcheol says, “but—”</p><p>“What else does water resist as a result of its self-adhesive properties?”</p><p>“Animals, depending on their size. But—”</p><p>“And what happens when a wind-speaker and a tree-speaker who are evenly matched in ability and study fight each other?”</p><p>Seungcheol raises his head. “Passion drives them, unless there is a distraction, in which case focus becomes the key. Jihoon—”</p><p>“And that’s what you need to learn,” Jihoon says, sitting back on his hands to look up into Seungcheol’s face at an angle. “Copy this down two hundred times. <em> Focus is the key to unlocking the door of potential</em>. You must learn this,” he says more kindly, when Seungcheol makes a face. “More than learning it, you must <em> do </em>it. You must focus,” he says, slapping the floor next to him for emphasis.</p><p>Seungcheol pouts at him some more. It almost never works, but he always tries. “I can’t,” he protests. “It doesn’t work for me.”</p><p>“You must.”</p><p>“I don’t see why a king has to be so good at magic anyway,” Seungcheol grumbles, “not when there’s a perfectly capable wizard right beside him.” It’s an old argument, brought up for argument’s sake. </p><p>Jihoon glares up at him. “You don’t have to be <em> good </em> at magic,” he sneers, “only passable. And besides... what will happen when there is no longer a capable wizard beside him?” It’s not a direct reference—Jihoon is too careful for that, despite his blustering attitude—but the reminder is like a cold bucket of water being dumped down his back anyway. Seungcheol slumps over the table.</p><p>“Fine,” he says. He beckons to Yerim, who has been dutifully standing silently by the wall. “Bring me some paper and ink. I’ll show you focus,” he says resentfully to Jihoon. Jihoon only takes out his flask and sighs.</p><p>“Drinking in the middle of the day is going to inhibit your spells,” Seungcheol reminds him. He knows Mingyu is probably the one who fetches the liquor from the kitchens for him. He ought to get Mingyu to stop that. Still—better liquor than drowning in a tub of water.</p><p>Jihoon rolls his eyes. “Write your lines, Highness.”</p><p>The writing is tedious work, but it’s boring enough for Seungcheol to let his thoughts wander. The snows are almost here; the records indicate that they will come soon, and the air tastes like it, sharp and expectant. The ambassador from the outer territories might not have experienced such snows before. The river that comes from the mountains in the north makes the snows thick and wet. He makes a mental note to mention it to Seokmin especially.</p><p>“What is this?” Jihoon interrupts his train of thought. Seungcheol blinks down at his paper to see that he has written his strokes unevenly. They are supposed to be uniform; all the lines are supposed to be the same. Jihoon shakes his head at him. “Focus,” he says. “Start over.”</p><p>Seungcheol really resents him sometimes. By the time he’s done with his lines, it’s high afternoon, and the hunger in his stomach has abated from a sharp pain to a dull ache.</p><p>Jihoon, bastard that he is, offers no sympathy. “Fill the cup with water,” he says, taking out a ceramic dish, “and you may drink.”</p><p>Sometimes Seungcheol thinks their little exchange of power is the only thing that keeps him sane. It must be a feeling experienced in this same spot by many rulers before him.</p><p>He stares at the cup. He imagines the air around him, yielding around the water, just as he has been taught. Then he thinks about the water that exists all around him, in every space of the world. Manifesting water out of the air is very difficult. He’s not sure if Jihoon has given him this task because he thinks he can do it or because he thinks it’s too hard.</p><p>He thinks about the river, the sound of it rushing, the way it falls and swirls over his fingers when he visits it. He imagines the cup filling with the water from the river, slowly, surely, rising to the lip. He thinks he even sees a glimmer of something in the bottom of the cup, near the middle.</p><p>It’s gone in a flash. The rushing in his ears rocks him back and forth. The air feels warm, too warm, too hot. Seungcheol wants to take the cup and throw it at the wall. </p><p>Jihoon looks at him steadily. Not angrily, not challenging, just confidently. “You can do it,” he says. And that’s right—he has always believed in Seungcheol like that, ever since he came to the palace. He’s always been Seungcheol’s anchor, his familiar, unwavering backdrop. </p><p>Seungcheol cannot do it.</p><p>The problem with Jihoon’s magic lessons is that focus is not Seungcheol’s issue. His issue is not ability; it is not study. Seungcheol has a secret—something that he has kept from everybody in the palace. The only one who had known the truth of it has been gone for five years. Not even Jihoon knows, though Seungcheol is certain he suspects.</p><p>Jihoon takes his hand and guides him again through his breathing exercises. He talks about the water with reverence in his voice. He signals for Yerim to raise the intensity of the incense. Seungcheol tries to listen; he tries so hard. Magic has always been fascinating to him, ever since he saw his father’s wizard move the snow in front of his parents’ sleeping quarters, ever since he met Soonyoung. Elemental language has a long history in this part of the world. His ancestral shrines are decorated with inscriptions of powerful water-speakers in particular. He reveres the magic; he appreciates it and tries to understand it. He tries to listen to Jihoon.</p><p>But the problem is that Seungcheol cannot let go.</p><p> </p><p>••</p><p> </p><p>Winter bears down on them hard. The air is dry and chilly, and the animals that have not fled to warmer places hunker down to wait out the season. The whole palace takes out their winter coats and hats, though the official start of the winter season won’t come until the winter solstice.</p><p>Seungcheol goes to see Junhui the day before the frost sets in. He will remember it later as the last day that things went as expected, or perhaps as the first day of the unexpected course of events. Junhui asks him to walk in the gardens for the first time, and Seungcheol does not say no.</p><p>He is used to walking in the garden by himself, and with various advisors and guards. Walking with Junhui is different. It’s strange. Everything looks as it should, but it feels like he is looking at the trees and grasses and murky pond waters at a different time of day, with the sun at a different angle in the sky, maybe. Maybe with a different sun. It’s like he’s noticing that the branches of the trees are brown for the first time. </p><p>Junhui standing next to his guards Minghao and Yuxin, his hair all flecked with gold and backlit against the scenery, must be something artists would travel great distances to paint. He can imagine the way they would look at his profile, would study the line of his nose, his jaw, his neck. They could spend a lot of time deliberating over the perfect colors and strokes to capture how full of life he looks. Would they see his face burned into their eyelids every time they closed their eyes after looking at him for so long? Seungcheol doesn’t know.</p><p>Seungcheol takes him past the library to his father’s old study, secluded among the trees. The floor is cold, now. Nobody uses it except Seungcheol. They don’t go inside. Seungcheol isn’t ready for Junhui to be inside there. But they stand on the porch and watch the branches overhead wave to the passing clouds.</p><p>“Your Highness,” Junhui says after a few minutes, and Seungcheol has seen him enough times now to know to brace himself for a blunt comment. Minghao tenses where he’s standing at the entrance to the study. Yuxin is a perfect image of relaxed composure, sure of herself and her prowess. It makes Seungcheol nervous.</p><p>“Junhui,” he acknowledges, taking his eyes off the guards to look his betrothed in the face. “What is it?”</p><p>Junhui licks his lips. Seungcheol tries not to track the motion. The shadows of the trees play a merry dance across his nose and cheek. “I would like to know more about your people,” Junhui says.</p><p>So Seungcheol makes his second Junhui-related mistake. </p><p>“What would you like to know?”</p><p>“I was thinking about how nice it would be to have your people see me,” Junhui says, “as a public celebration of our betrothal.”</p><p>Again with Junhui, it is not the request Seungcheol expects. A public excursion is something Jongdae, his Chief Councilor, has been trying to convince him to do since Junhui arrived. Seungcheol had always refused on the grounds that Junhui was not happy in his kingdom. Junhui suggesting it presents a wrench in his reasoning. He feels a little like he’s fallen from a horse. He swallows; the trap tightens around him. “Alright,” he says.</p><p>Junhui smiles. Minghao, Seungcheol notices, has not relaxed.</p><p>“Thank you,” Junhui says. “Elements favor Your Highness.”</p><p>“Call me Seungcheol,” Seungcheol says, falling into recklessness. “We are betrothed.”</p><p>“Elements favor you, Seungcheol-hyung,” Junhui says, smirking, cheek coloring his voice.</p><p>Like with Mingyu, Seungcheol sees a bit of himself in Junhui, like a distorted mirror. He turns his face away and looks out at the trees. Something shakes them in the distance, maybe an animal. He hears a twitter somewhere and tenses, then immediately tries to relax. He sees the bird a moment later, soaring out among the bare branches. It’s not for him. The relief he feels leaves a bitter taste in his mouth.</p><p>A public processional outing will take a long time to prepare, of course. Everything needs to look just right, to honor his own family and Junhui’s. And the king going out is always an opportunity for him to do the most public part of his heaven-granted task: to hear the people. The week before Hansol’s birthday would be a good time to do it. He hopes it will bring luck to the family. He certainly needs it.</p><p> </p><p>••</p><p> </p><p>Junhui kisses him outside his rooms after Seungcheol walks back with him. It’s just a peck on the cheek, but it burns for hours after with the weight of promises Seungcheol has not made. It burns in the evening when Seungcheol walks into the Executive Hall and sees the drawn faces of his advisors. </p><p>“Your Highness,” Jongdae says as soon as Seungcheol takes his place on his cushion. He sounds more vexed than Seungcheol has heard in a while. He closes his eyes for a moment before looking at Seungcheol sadly. It’s a startling contrast to his usual disposition. Seungcheol’s stomach drops in dread. </p><p>Jongdae skips any preamble. “There’s been an earthquake in the north,” he says.</p><p><em> So much for luck to the family</em>, Seungcheol thinks. Natural disasters are not signals that the king is doing well. </p><p>Jongdae shows Seungcheol the site of the earthquake on a map. It’s at the edge of Seungcheol’s territory closest to the path Junhui took to get to the palace. There are not usually earthquakes there—a sign that something is wrong. The elements are not happy. </p><p>“When did this happen?” he asks.</p><p>“Thirteen days ago,” the messenger from the north says. “A small town was devastated. Five people died. They were prisoners, but even so.”</p><p><em> Fuck</em>, Seungcheol wants to say. He wants to pretend he’s four years old again so he can whine and scream and pound his fists against the floor, or at least kick a table and overturn the papers and pottery on top of it. He doesn’t—of course he doesn’t. Instead he makes a list of things to be sent to the little town, discusses more matters of business with his advisors, and then makes his way alone to the Elemental Hall next door.</p><p>Junhui’s idea of a public appearance is a good one. If he can help his people, the elements will favor him better. He <em> hopes </em> they will show him favor, he amends as he stares at the designs on the underside of the roof of the Elemental Hall. There are leaves painted on it, mountains. Water. Clouds. Fire. The roaring faces of animals. Birds. </p><p>There are no bones. Death has no place in such a sacred hall. Not since Seungcheol’s great-great-great-grandmother’s day, when there was rumored to be someone who could kill with a kiss. <em> He could not master Death</em>, the stories all say, but there were consorts and concubines and servants killed with ease, and a new sacred hall was built as soon as the mourning period for the queen was over. </p><p>He drags his feet as he walks up the stairs and through the public part of the hall, past the wall that divides the building in half, and into Jihoon’s lair, as Soonyoung has called it. Here is where tokens of the elements are kept and tended to by Jihoon. The room smells pleasantly of incense, the kind that Jihoon likes that Seungcheol knows masks the smell of his sweet drinks. There is a painted screen dividing the room in half that shows the view of the mountains from Seungcheol’s grandmother’s small palace. It has been here for as long as Seungcheol can remember. He always thinks about asking her why it was painted in such a way and never remembers to when he writes to her. </p><p>“Your Highness,” Jihoon calls from behind the screen. There is no <em> elements favor </em> attached to the palace wizard’s official address. Jihoon uses it only on very rare occasions. And anyway, it is clear that Seungcheol is not in a good place with the elements right now.</p><p>Jihoon’s expression is gentle when Seungcheol walks around to the other side of the screen. Seungcheol isn’t expecting it, and it overwhelms him all of a sudden, crashes into him. There’s a sudden lump in his throat.</p><p>“Jihoon,” he says miserably. “What do I do?”</p><p>Jihoon’s answer is swift and easy. “You take responsibility,” he says. “Like you always do,” he adds, softer. </p><p>Seungcheol does not like to cry often, but Jihoon lets him stand there while the tears run down his face and doesn’t say anything. </p><p>“This has never happened to me before,” Seungcheol whispers. </p><p>It’s obvious, and Jihoon has been here for six years, but he says, “I know,” anyway. Seungcheol does not deserve his kind mood today. He never does. </p><p>Jihoon is so powerful. He has studied all the elemental languages and magic besides, and his tongue knows the water in particular the way the riverbanks do, the way the fish do. “Can’t you make them stop?” Seungcheol whispers. “The tears?” </p><p>Jihoon shakes his head. He <em> can</em>; Seungcheol has seen him do it for Mingyu before he went to visit his father when his father was sick. He just won’t do it for Seungcheol now.</p><p>“You need to get all your crying out,” he says wisely. It’s something Seungcheol’s mother used to say to him, which only makes him cry even more. He stands there in front of the table with all the items for the elemental ceremony laid out and sniffles into his sleeves. </p><p>He’s sure his skin is red and blotchy when he’s done. He is not a pretty crier. Jihoon does not ask him if he feels better, but he doesn’t dwell on it either. He opens the little pots with the elements in them and goes back behind the screen, leaving Seungcheol to complete the first part of his task.</p><p>Seungcheol has read about this ceremony, but he has been fortunate to never have to experience it. His father never had to, or perhaps never got the chance to. Resentment bubbles up in Seungcheol’s chest, chasing the tears like the self-pity is dragging it out of him. His father should be the one here, in the palace. Other people Seungcheol’s age are getting married and having children. They don’t have to worry about carrying the whole land on their backs. Not that he should complain. It is, after all, his destiny, and there is no arguing with that. But he feels the resentment anyway.</p><p>He sits down on the cushion in front of the table. The pots are arranged in a line—water, hot coals, dirt and rocks, leaves and sticks, and an empty pot to represent the wind. The five normal elemental languages, although the last two are not usually used in this area. Death, of course, is not represented here, and neither is the elusive language Seungcheol has read about in ancient legends: the language of thought. </p><p>He dips his hand in the water first. This is the main reason for the ruler to learn the basic languages of the elements. If they cannot speak an elemental language, at least they can understand how the elements work in theory. Seungcheol closes his eyes and concentrates on the feeling of the cold water coating his fingers, the favored element of his people. There are five hundred and ninety-one registered water-speakers in his kingdom; there are forty-three treatises on water-speaking in the library; he has read five of them. There are three major rivers that run through his kingdom. Countless wells. The frost that hangs in the air. His own tears that have soaked his sleeve, that have soaked the earth, that have sunk into the floor of the Ancestral Hall where his parents’ memories rest.</p><p>“Jihoon,” he whispers. “I’m ready.”</p><p>He hears Jihoon’s footsteps as he walks back around the screen, then feels his cold hand on his wrist. Jihoon’s fingertips come around to rest on the backs of his knuckles, and Seungcheol feels the telltale warm <em> zap </em> of magic. </p><p>Jihoon moves his hand to the pot of hot coals. The outside of the pot is not hot enough to burn but it is hot enough to be uncomfortable. Jihoon’s hands on Seungcheol’s keep him from jerking away. Seungcheol focuses on the balance of things. The cold of Jihoon’s hand versus the heat of the pot. The sweat of summer that has slipped away. They skip over the pot of earth to go to the pot with the leaves and sticks, for tree-speaking. The sticks do not represent the language well, because it is more about time than it is about plants, more about the strength and solid stoicism of old trees than about the leaves that are shed with the seasons, but it is what they have. Seungcheol thinks about the turning of the earth and the blooming of growth under the sun and rain. </p><p>Jihoon shakes his hand around in the empty jar to move the air around in an imitation of wind. Wind-speakers are rare in this area, rarer still toward the south. Seungcheol has heard of them being persecuted in the mountains, kept out of exams and schools and registers. They are supposed to be more common farther past the mountains, where Junhui is from. He thinks of the winds that push the clouds that shade the plants from the sun.</p><p>Last comes the earth. With such a balance of the other elements in mind, Seungcheol lowers his hand into the pot. He sinks his fingers in and thinks of the strength of the world, the rocks that have supported humans and animals and plants for thousands of years. </p><p>The purpose of the pots is to make all the elements available to anyone with an elemental tongue, regardless of the element. It is a bypass of sorts, and for this reason it is guarded closely by the palace wizard. Seungcheol does not know if there are such sacred pots in other kingdoms. The ones here are a closely-guarded secret, known only to himself and Jihoon.</p><p><em> And Soonyoung</em>, his traitorous brain reminds him. And Soonyoung, he agrees, trying not to lose his focus. Soonyoung had asked him about it right before Seungcheol had made the biggest mistake of his life. He should have known that Soonyoung already knew about it, but he had been surprised anyway. He should have done this ceremony that night. Maybe that was all the trouble.</p><p>Jihoon squeezes his hand, and he flinches in surprise. Talking breaks concentration, and it isn’t allowed in the ceremony, but Seungcheol hears his words clearly anyway: <em>F</em><em>ocus! </em></p><p>He wiggles his fingers in the dirt. He feels balanced. The world feels balanced. He feels—fine. He isn’t supposed to feel fine; he’s supposed to feel the screaming of the earth, or something. Some shaking, some misery, that will show him what to do. The earth does not rumble randomly.</p><p>He feels Jihoon tense next to him as they both come to the same conclusion. Seungcheol flexes his hand a bit more, tries to focus on the sorrows of the earth, but there’s nothing. </p><p>Jihoon lets go of him. Seungcheol cannot leave the ceremony incomplete, even if there is no reason to carry it out anymore. He takes out his hand and rests it on his lap, then thanks the elements in his head, thanks the lines of rulers and wizards who have brought balance to the world, thanks all his ancestors for bringing him to this moment where he can beg the world for forgiveness. </p><p>As soon as he’s done, he opens his eyes and looks up at Jihoon. Jihoon is already staring back at him.</p><p>“You felt it, too,” Seungcheol says, “right?”</p><p>Jihoon nods. “There isn’t anything wrong. Not naturally, anyway. It’s not your fault.”</p><p>Seungcheol does not feel relief. “Someone made the earthquake happen,” he says. </p><p>Jihoon nods again. </p><p>“Fuck,” Seungcheol whispers very, very quietly. An elemental attack in the north… there’s no way around it. This is bad news. Possibly even worse news than a natural earthquake.</p><p>“That’s a completely different situation,” Jihoon says. “Whoever did it must be very powerful.”</p><p>“We already have problems with the southern plains,” Seungcheol says. “They attack the villages. But they are not earth-speakers; those are all animal attacks. Lee Seokmin told me there are almost never natural disaster-type attacks in the Outer Territories.”</p><p>Jihoon shakes his head. “No, there are no registered earth-speakers this side of the mountains.”</p><p>“Jihoon,” Seungcheol says, getting up and beginning to pace around. “There are people in my court that I must not trust. Not because some of them are foreign, although I must be suspicious of them, too. Because I do not know their motivations. My parents… my parents and my brother were killed for a reason. Your predecessor wasn’t working alone. I know this; I was… I was there, Jihoon. I saw it.” He has not talked about this in a long time. The lump in his throat is back.</p><p>“Highness,” Jihoon says gently. “We will figure out who attacked the north, and why. If there is someone in the court who is secretly communicating with some outside forces, we will find out. In the meantime, do your duty as normal. We must act as if it was a natural occurrence. The sacred pots are a secret, you know that.”</p><p>Seungcheol nods. “We will hold the public procession as Junhui requested,” he says, “although I have more reason to be suspicious of him now. We must have more security than we would normally. And someone must stay behind to protect the palace. Especially the Elemental Hall.”</p><p>“I will appoint guards here. And Hansol isn’t allowed to go out with you.”</p><p>Seungcheol frowns. “But the people should see him, too.”</p><p>Jihoon crosses his arms. “I will not budge on this, so don’t bother arguing. Hansol stays here. He is your cousin. If something happens, it will not happen to both of you.”</p><p>Seungcheol paces a few more lengths. “Fine.” </p><p>“Good,” Jihoon says. “Now get out of my workspace and go back to your duties. Oh, and tell Junhui to send his guard Minghao to Hansol, if you see him. He has that medicine now for the nausea that he’s been complaining about. Go on,” he says when Seungcheol doesn’t move.</p><p>Seungcheol goes back behind the painted screen. He stops halfway to the doorway and stares at the mountains. They’re not really a likeness anymore. They are still the same mountains, but surely some of the snow on the tops has melted and reformed in a different pattern by now. Surely the trees have been cut down in places and made a different silhouette. </p><p>“Jihoon,” Seungcheol says when he gets to the door to the lair.</p><p>Jihoon sticks his head out from behind the screen.</p><p>“Thank you,” Seungcheol says.</p><p>Jihoon blinks at him slowly, nods in acknowledgement. “Elements favor you,” he says softly.</p><p>Seungcheol leaves. </p><p>There is no reason to tell Junhui to go to Hansol. Junhui is walking toward him, all bundled up in his fur-lined hat and coat, with his arm around Minghao. Seungcheol turns around and walks toward the garden to avoid talking to them. </p><p>He’s halfway there when something zooms into his field of vision. He flinches back, but he knows what it is even before his eyes refocus on the shape on the ground. The bird limps around. One of its wings is broken. </p><p>“Unless you have a message from Soonyoung, I don’t want to speak to you,” Seungcheol says savagely.</p><p>The bird looks up at the sound of his voice. It opens its beak. Nothing comes out. Seungcheol has forgotten what little of the language of animals he has learned, or something is blocking it. Soonyoung’s fault, maybe. His own fault, really, just like everything else.</p><p>The bird dies as he watches. He collects it and leaves it in the pond. He must not neglect nature anymore. </p><p> </p><p>••</p><p> </p><p>It is dark by the time Seungcheol makes his way to his rooms to eat dinner. Maybe he should stop avoiding his court. It would be easier to figure out hidden motivations if he actually spent time with his courtiers instead of hiding in his rooms all the time. </p><p>“Your Highness,” someone says in acknowledgment as he walks past the kitchens. </p><p>It takes him a moment to recognize Lee Seokmin’s attendant. His white clothes almost shine in the darkness.</p><p>“Did you eat dinner?” Seungcheol asks him in a moment of raw kindness. The question tears at him like a disease. He <em> needs </em> to know, for some reason. </p><p>“I did, Your Highness.” </p><p>“Good,” Seungcheol says. “Someone must, around here.”</p><p>Seokmin’s attendant raises his head a little. “Forgive me,” he says, “but is Your Highness upset? Is there anything I can do to help?”</p><p>Seungcheol laughs a little—a wet, sniffly sound. He’s going to start crying again, all because of that stupid bird, because of the unasked-for kindness of this stranger. “No,” he says. “There’s nothing.”</p><p>“Elements grant Your Highness peace,” the attendant says softly. It’s a departure from the traditional greeting. His choice of words is deliberate. He must mean them.</p><p>Seungcheol swallows. “And may you be shown favor,” he says back formally. </p><p>He walks on. Mingyu is standing outside the kitchens waiting for him, watching him as he approaches. He will eat with Mingyu in his rooms, and then decide if he wants Mingyu in his bed or not. Probably not, tonight. Sometimes he needs to be alone, however much he hates it. He cannot help but dwell on the birds. When they come, his mind focuses on them for hours. Why can’t he understand them? Why do they come, if they do not speak? Where do they come from? Why are they all mountain species? It makes no sense. He feels trapped, again, a little hill between the wide, flat expanse of the plains to the southwest and the looming mountains of the north. A little man between a family legacy and a betrothal neither party wants.</p><p>He turns around. Seokmin’s attendant is almost out of sight.</p><p>“Wait!” he calls out gently. The attendant stops, turns. Seungcheol walks quickly toward him and almost trips over his own shoes. “What’s your name?” he calls.</p><p>The attendant tilts his head. “Yoon Jeonghan,” he says. </p><p>Seungcheol feels the bizarre need to introduce himself. “Sleep well, Yoon Jeonghan,” he says instead of saying something stupid, like <em> I’m the king </em>or <em> my name is Seungcheol</em>.</p><p>He can see Jeonghan’s smile even in the dark. Jeonghan bows, then turns around to go back to his rooms, back to Lee Seokmin, back to his warm, companionable presence. Seungcheol turns to Mingyu and prepares himself for a sleepless night.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Fic title taken from the Cutting Crew song.</p><p>playlist: <a href="https://open.spotify.com/playlist/7JtjUwwSrOhcGeYV9AlFSq?si=XBWxCsUARB6rDx3z8kuRNA">i've carried it well</a>.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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